


Never Kiss and Tell

by Eisenschrott



Series: The Saucy Executor [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lies, M/M, Mention of Past Sexual Assault, Mention of past hazing, Other, Past Character Death, Propaganda, Prostitution, Speciesism, Strained Relationships, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 188,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7157387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The SSD Executor stops at Kuat for repairs after a baffling failed mission on Bespin. With good reason, Admiral Piett, General Veers, and the rest of the Imperial flagship's crew, want nothing more than a little downtime until the next call to arms. What they get instead is a hunt for a traitor in the ranks, and a host of unresolved family affairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Enjoy your shore leave, Lieutenant.”

“I will, sir.”

“Downtime will be few and far between from now on, you know?”

“I do, sir.”

A lewd smile. “What I’m trying to tell you is, eat some pussy while you can. Or cock if that’s what floats your repulsorcraft. It’ll keep you sane throughout the tour of duty.”

Lieutenant Zevulon Veers had neither the barefacedness for a yes-sir response, nor the guts to punch that smile off his commander’s mug. _Former_ commander.

The latter elbowed him in the ribs and regaled him with some other pearl of bedroom wisdom; then a formal military salute was exchanged. It all made Zev’s uniform feel sticky with filth, made him itch to rip it off and toss it in a garbage chute.

The lieutenant picked up his suitcase and walked out of Commander Laibach’s office, into a set of lifts and hovertrains and airlocks and more hovertrains and more lifts. Scanners flashed over his eyes, the code cylinder in his tunic pocket blinked green, door after door slid open.

At last he sat down in a Kuati ferry ship descending towards the capital city. The three officers who passed the final set of security controls with him, and boarded the same ferry, busied themselves discussing gravball scores. Sitting stiff, he stared at the back of the seat in front of him, careful not to glance at them—but he couldn’t un-hear the voices. All females, around his age.

Commander Laibach would have smiled from ear to ear and pumped a fist. For that very reason, Zev wouldn’t look at the girls.

A feminine droid voice announced the ride would last fifteen standard minutes, the weather over Kuat City was sunny with a ground temperature of eighteen standard degrees (“I should’ve brought a swimsuit,” said one of the girls; Zev shifted in his seat), special discounts for Imperial military personnel were available in the shops and restaurants listed on the seat’s touch-screen display, etcetera.

Zev rested his forehead against the transparisteel pane to his right, pulling his cap back so that the visor didn’t get in the way. Sun rays blazed and shifted angles on the sides of the viewport. The blackness of space faded into a clearer and clearer blue as the ferry plunged down the planet’s thermosphere. A piece of debris hit the deflector shield and burst into a wink of light.

He couldn’t remember—he’d been too young to pay attention to such fine details—if his mother used to like window seats. Maybe the day of the accident she was sitting at one, gazing out at the stars, when one such light flicked into view; then it became a blinding flash, and the shuttle exploded. No sound in the interstellar void. No survivors.

There were far worse ways of dying, Zev knew. At least it must have been quick.

The planet loomed large below, blue and grey with fleecy clouds bathed in pale golden sunlight. Zev closed his eyes.

He’d drank too much caf in the past few standard hours to be sleepy, but he was too tired and too tense to have room for emotions. Even sadness. Once he and his flight partners were safely out of this system, en route to the rendezvous point with the Rebellion, he would sleep. Not a minute earlier than that.

After months of fretting, it seemed weird to be so calm. The closest sensation he could compare it to were the exams at the academy, pacing up and down a corridor and waiting for his turn at the examiner’s holodesk; he used to cry himself to sleep on the textbooks, but on the day of the exam he was so calm—so spent, indeed—that his classmates found him unnerving.

He fidgeted with the handle of the suitcase on his lap. The weight, the soft crinkles of the aging leather, the civilian clothes and the synox pill stuffed inside, were a welcome anchoring presence. Reopening his eyes, he reached inside the outer pocket and pulled out a palm-sized datapad.

Zev flipped the synth-leather case open, discreetly slipped the pill out of the inner pocket there and transferred it to his trousers pocket.

Nine minutes to landing, the navigation screen informed him. Just enough time to reread his whole favourite chapter on the book loaded into the datapad. He swiped to the bookmarked page; two paragraphs in, the light in the passenger area dimmed.

Zev’s heart knocked hard against his breastbone. But the Navy lieutenant in him coolly observed that no emergency lights had turned on and no alarm sirens were blaring. Indeed, the only noise was produced by the trio of girls, who cried out ‘whoa!’ at the same time and massed in front of a viewport.

“But I can’t see her!” whined one.

“Don’t look up. Look down at the surface.” Her friend tapped a finger on the transparisteel. Some unexplainable, unreasonable association of sounds made Zev uneasy. “You can see her shadow.”

The third girl whistled. “Holy poodoo. The _Executor_ is quite the fat lady, isn’t she?”

A male, middle-aged officer at another seat intervened, “Never say that in the admiral’s presence, _vod_.” Well, Zev trusted his ears well enough to believe it was the Mando’a word for comrade. “Or in Lord Vader’s presence. It’s like you’re calling his wife an exogorth.”

The lieutenant who had tapped on the viewport huffed. “Lord Vader isn’t married. He isn’t even here, for that matter.”

“Oh?” said the girl who couldn’t see the _Executor_. “How do you know, Ninon?”

Ninon brushed a curl of dark brown hair behind her ear, and with her chin up and a proud smirk, managed to spin it into a gesture of utter self-assurance.

Zev looked away. The ferry was in blue sky now. He wished he could stop listening, but feminine voices weren’t as easily ignored as the pleas of prisoners when you unleashed an IT-O into the cell. “My informers are seldom wrong,” Ninon claimed. “And I know the new admiral of Death Squadron isn’t married, either.”

“Who is he, even?”

“A Rimworlder.”

“Oh.”

Zev grit his teeth, staring down at the datapad in his hands. So much for the Empire levelling the Core vs Rim disparity for good. So much for millennia of pan-galactic civilisation that should have levelled it since forever and ago.

“Hey, I am a Rimworlder, too!” protested the Mandalorian officer. He was laughing, though, and Zev considered throwing the datapad at him— _no, damn it, not now. Escape. Desertion. Stick to the plan. Obey your orders, for once that they’re worth obeying_.

The girls tittered. Ninon said, “Correct, Bertolt, but you’re also a coffin jockey; that’s a lot worse!”

The Mandalorian had already started guffawing at the coffin jockey bit.

Grey-white clouds now filled the viewport frame. Six standard minutes to landing. Ninon, the Mandalorian and the others engaged in tongue-in-cheek bickering, presumably about personnel aboard the ship they all served on. Thank the Force the conversation had moved away from the _Executor_ before anyone mentioned the general in charge of the SSD’s ground forces.

The ferry bore through the clouds at last, and the land appeared underneath. There was so much green among the colourful tiled roofs and the immaculate marble buildings, and along the banks of the canals, that Zev could only sit there gaping like an idiot. How long had it been since he’d last walked under real, live trees?

Well, he damn well hoped the Rebellion took him to a planet with a lot of trees. He tore his face away from the window, slipped the datapad back into the suitcase, rose, and marched up to the exit hatch, and stood there so he would be the first to exit. He pictured himself leading a victorious insurrection on Kashyyyk, freeing enslaved Wookiees.

The ferry landed; the girls stood right behind him, so close he could smell them, and Ninon laughed. Zev stiffened, and pressed the suitcase against the front of his trousers to be extra sure. There were girls in the Rebellion, too. Young like him, and pretty. He’d seen the holos in the criminal profiles databank. He’d read prisoners’ confessions that stated Rebels would make love with each other when they could, with death at their heels; some even got married.

The droid voice warmly thanked the passengers for choosing to travel with Kuat Yard Drive Commuting Express. The hatch opened with a cheerful pre-recorded chime.

Sunlight burst all around Zev. He took his first step with his eyes closed, and his foot caught in the gap the droid voice had just warned about between the catwalk and the platform. Basic training kicked in: he spun his upper body in mid-fall, so as to land shoulder-first and then roll over, head down, the suitcase held tight to his chest. The end was a soft landing on his feet, bent over and ready to move out of the way. The fluid move would’ve made his academy instructors proud.

His pulse raced and a voice started screaming in his mind: _cover blown, RUN_. But it was no instinct he hadn’t learned well to suppress.

He squinted, forcing his eyesight into focus, straightened his cap, and resumed the march—

“Hey, you, longhair!”

Zev dragged his feet to a halt. As he turned, he stuffed his left hand into the trousers pocket where he’d put the suicide pill. “Uh, sorry?” The pocket was empty. Fuck.

The Mandalorian officer Bertolt stood in front of him, with a friendly smile on his face, holding out a tiny foil-wrapped thing between forefinger and thumb: the pill. _Fuck_.

Bertolt’s eyes flicked to the rank badge on Zev’s uniform. He went on in the same relaxed tone, “I think this one’s yours. Fell out of your pocket.”

“Oh… yes, yes it is, thank you.” Zev snatched the pill off Bertolt’s hand, hid it in his fist and dropped it back inside his pocket. He forced himself to smile. “It’s just a gumdrop to keep my ears from bursting under the decompression. Lucky me, I didn’t need it!”

Bertolt shook his head. For all the man still appeared friendly, Zev felt his legs go boneless and the blood drain from his face. Shit, what if he had recognised the foil wrap as that of a synox pill? Fear-induced deafness made him miss the first few words Bertolt spoke, and he had to blink himself back into attention.

“…but I guess not everyone’s cut out for the Starfighter corps, eh!” Bertolt gave him a pat on a shoulder, and strode to catch up with the girls several meters ahead. Ninon raised an eyebrow at him, then at Zev, who stalked off before their gazes could meet.

His eyes got used to the natural light. He had memorised the street-view path out of the station and the ferry spaceport and into Kuat City, but despite the choking weight of worry at the pit of his stomach, he couldn’t help his feet from slowing down and his eyes from gaping at gilded, vaulted ceilings that could have let an AT-AT stand beneath them, and at stained glass windows you could have comfortably flown a Corellian corvette through.

Sentimental drivel, all of it. He had a mission. He wasn’t here for a merry shore leave. Instead of motivating him, the thought stung him. The pool of worry in his chest caught fire and turned into flaming hatred for every officer, trooper, tech, noncom and droid that walked or ran all around him. Sheep of the Empire. Only good for being slain, the lot of them.

To bring down this place, Zev calculated with a hurtful glee that almost brought tears to his eyes, would it be most effective to use turbolaser firepower, or explosive charges?

Outside the first gate, standing in queue at the exit checkpoint, the first breath of wind over his face blew the flames away. It was of the perfect freshness to make the warm sunlight bearable, and it carried the scent of plants, river water, and fresh bread.

“Oh dear, I had forgotten being dirt-side makes me so hungry,” he overheard a female middle-aged voice say behind him. Without turning, Zev nodded in secret agreement.

The farther Zev got from the station and into the city, the more he let the smile that tugged the corners of his mouth spread. Most Kuati buildings were law-bound not to stand above a set safety height as protection against meteor showers, and therefore didn’t look as impressive as the architecture on Denon. But by virtue of their small size and the open sky above, along with the tiled roofs and the flower pots decorating the balconies, they felt homey and soothing after months spent in the distinctive mixture of claustrophobia and cold grandeur that were the bowels of a Star Destroyer.

On that side of the roadway, there was a pastry kiosk. Two young smiling Humans, male and female, in blue and azure aprons matching the blue and azure tent overhead, handed over glazed donuts and wrapped pancakes off the griddle. It was just too perfect. He couldn’t resist picking one.

“It’s on the house, Lieutenant,” said the kiosk boy, smiling brightly. “Enjoy your shore leave, and glory to the Emperor.”

“Thank you.” Zev spun on his heels and trotted to the hovertram stop. He doubted the kiosk boy would notice how his answer lacked patriotic fervour. It irked him. The Force only knew which side of him it irked: the deserter or the COMPNOR analyst.

He sat down in the car and ate his crepe. It was oily and very sweet. He had to stuff it down his gorge to finish it, then wiped the sugar on his hands onto his trousers. He glanced around in search of disapproving scowls, but none of the passengers—all Humans, civilians and military and military in civvies that you could spot from the way they carried themselves—deigned him with an excuse to pick a fight.

 _And it’s better this way. You mustn’t draw attention_.

Soon enough—he checked his chrono, a gift from his father that was a bit too big: everything on schedule—he would be picking a much bigger and worthier fight, with the whole Empire.

He alighted at one stop, strolled to another, gazed at the red fish in the canal water while he waited for the next hovertram, alighted again at another stop, and ambled into a park.

Forty-five standard minutes to the rendezvous. It would appear suspicious if he got there too early and someone noticed him loitering by the landing bay, so he took his time under the shade of the trees.

Even with that precaution, the sunlight baked his uniform and the back of his neck through his hair. It felt strange, squishy and slippery, to tread on earth rather than durasteel; after something stung his ankle through his boot, he decided the solid ground was best left to another Veers. He limped to a bench and, with a sigh, flopped the suitcase onto his knees.

The orbital ring, a thin scar that cut across the celestial sphere, taunted him from high above. Shipyards, artillery batteries, mine nets, Imperial and Kuati ships patrolling the area or docked for repairs and construction—the _Executor_ among them—they all looked down upon him and sneered. _You will never make it past us, boy_. The imaginary voice was a mixture of his father’s and Commander Laibach’s.

Zev angrily tore off his boot and massaged the sting on his skin. Shit, who would’ve thought about bringing along a spray can of bloodfly repellent in an urbanised place?

 _Forty minutes. Hold on_.

Just like in a cheesy old poem, a cute girl walked in. Jogged in, to be exact. At a slow gait, that slowed down to a panting halt at the centre of the pathway.

The girl brushed back a strand of blond hair that stuck to her flushed cheek, rolled up the left sleeve of her grey army-issue tracksuit and pressed a button on the chrono at her wrist. She was still panting, but a smile lit her face. Having been a victim to obstacle courses while doing time at the academy, Zev nodded in unspoken solidarity.

The girl looked around; her eyes lingered on the bench he was occupying, then flitted onto him.

She tore her face away, as if neon letters were spelling out _TRAITOR_ above his head.

Zev almost gasped in surprise and terror. Almost. The one good page you could take off the Empire’s book was that it taught young officers like him to rein in fear; he’d never been a bad student, no matter how hard he tried.

The girl slumped to sit at the side of the grass bed.

“Hey!” Zev called. “You don’t have to sit on the ground. There’s plenty of room here.” He pointed at the opposite end of his bench.

Blue eyes gaped at him. The sticky imaginary filth that covered his uniform bore down on him again. But before he could rise and let her have the entire bench, she scrambled to her feet and came to sit next to him. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Soft, modulated Core accent.

“You’re welcome… ma’am.”

She smiled again; this time it was pure politeness. Nice but nowhere as heartfelt as the smile at the end of the run. “I do not outrank you. No need for so much formality.”

“Glad to hear it.” He extended a hand. “Zevulon. But Zev is easier to remember.”

“Annice.”

Her hand was tiny in his, like holding a baby bird, and yet on her palm and her forefinger he felt the calluses of frequent blaster-handling.

“Are you stationed here?” he asked.

“Here?”

“I mean, here in Kuat City. Or on the orbital ring.”

Annice groaned louder than the minimal misunderstanding warranted. “Sorry, I’m just… a bit oxygen-deprived. No, no, I—my ship stopped here for repairs.”

He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from pointing out that, if the ship was _hers_ , she must be at the very least a captain, and therefore did outrank him. “I see,” he took the diplomatic route instead. “Pretty place to spend some free time in, isn’t it?”

“More or less free. A superior of mine ordered me to keep myself fit, so you could say I’m actually still on active duty.” She laughed and it was a pretty, musical laughter even if the joke wasn’t funny, as she gestured at her tracksuit. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to visit Kuat. So many museums and places to see!”

“Really?” It was pathetic, but the mention of museums piqued his interest. “Have you been to the Kuhlvult Art Gallery?”

“No. Not yet. But I booked tickets for tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. You know what they say—”

“You can’t see it all in one day. That’s true!” Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. He hoped the answer to the next question would disappoint him and make him stop finding Annice increasingly cute, “So, what rooms are you going to see first?”

She jabbed a forefinger to her upper lip, deep in thought. “The Turquoise Wing.”

“I… I would, too.” Fuck. “I’m not very keen on ancient history, but original Rakatan artefacts are just too important. I think every spacefaring sentient should go and see them at least once in their lifetime.”

She nodded. Strands of hair escaped her bun and drooped over her forehead, and she swatted them back. Zev clamped his legs closed tight. “That’s beautiful,” she said. “Oh, and I can’t wait to see the Old Lady of Iego, too.”

“I bet a statue made of Kyber crystal is a lot more beautiful in person than in holos.”

“For sure! Though I’m mostly interested in the symbolism—you know, the scrolls, the astronomical instruments, the embroidery on her dress that’s actually a coded star map…” Her eyes went dreamy, as if she were describing a real live crush. “I really would have loved to write my Bachelor’s thesis about her.”

“University Bachelor’s?” He tried to calculate her age, with a pang of envy.

Annice nodded, beaming. “Theed University, School of Greater Galactic History.”

 _That_ Theed University. Ranked among the fifty best higher education institutions across the Empire-held galaxy—fifty out of billions. Zev’s jaw dropped. “Have… have you ever attended to one of Professor Eidous’ lectures?”

Annice blinked, with the smile still spread wide on her cute face. “Eidous of the Centre for Outer Rim Cultural Studies?”

“I have downloaded holos of almost all her lectures.” From a COMPNOR database of political suspects, no less. “She’s amazing. The depth of thought, the methodology…” He trailed off, seeing her smile a bit too fixed, uncomprehending. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I get excited sometimes—”

“Professor Eidous was expelled from the university last year,” Annice said as if that were the most obvious thing in the galaxy, “and her books and papers have been removed from the library and all curricula. She is currently under investigation for anti-Imperial propaganda.”

The crepe he’d just eaten turned into duracrete in his stomach. He held back the curses he wanted to cry out loud, and forced his face to wear a neutral expression.

The girl, however, noticed something slip from under his military mask. “It was a terrible moment for the entire campus. We were all as upset as you are, Zev.” Her hand brushed his. In a different moment, he might have melted. “I must admit,” Annice went on, “this scandal really helped me make up my mind.”

“Meaning?”

“I left university and enlisted.”

Surely into a specialised, non-combatant corps, Lieutenant Veers assessed. No one could have breezed so fast through a proper Army or Navy officer course. “Wise decision,” he said. The aftertaste of sugar and jam in his mouth soured.

“Oh, it truly was! I have found a new purpose,” she prattled on. “The sense of duty, the knowledge that I’m making a tangible difference to the galaxy. It’s better than anything I could have experienced on Naboo.” And so on.

The fixed smile was unbearable to watch any longer. Zev shoved the suitcase aside, right into Annice’s lap; ignoring her yelp of surprise and perhaps of pain, he bent down and jerked his boot back on. The plant or bug sting under his sock burned like noon on Tatooine in protest.

“Are you… alright?” she had the gall to ask.

No, he wasn’t. He had not been alright for ten odd years. “Tell me, have you ever seen Lord Vader?”

Annice was struck dumb. The peek he took at her suddenly dimmed expression was almost worth all the previous propaganda banthacrap. “Uh, yes,” she said.

In holovids, surely. “Well, do you know how he fights? With a lightsaber.” A memory wormed its way up the depths of his brain: the sofa on the living room; himself and a handful of his schoolmates sitting scattered on the sofa and the rug in front of it; his mother gently urging the kids to drink their tea before it cooled off; himself not caring one iota about the tea, and listening raptly to his father telling the story of how he’d met Lord Vader on the battlefields of Haidoral Prime; his father grinning as he mimicked a lightsaber parry and riposte with a teaspoon.

He stomped his injured foot into the earth.

“A Jedi weapon. That’s right! None other than the banned combat style of the defunct worst enemies of the Emperor. And yet, would you argue that the way Lord Vader fights is a form of anti-Imperial propaganda?”

Annice flinched away. “No! Never!” The suitcase thumped to the ground, and she beat him to pick it up again. Just a small extra addition to the revenge.

Zev pressed on the successful attack, “You see, rather than destroying what harms us, we should strive to make it ours. We did exactly that with the power of the Jedi, and with the wealth and resources of the Separatists.” He watched her jaw set and her lips purse. Adorable. He waved a hand, flicking towards her a thing floating in the air, that might be a bug or pollen. “And we should do the same with ideas. Complain all you want about her lack of political correctness, Professor Eidous was a first-rate authority in her field. It’s just myopic that we reject the ideas of an intellectual whose only fault is a hint of non-conformism.”

“A _hint_? She… she always found excuses not to be present at the commemoration for the victims of the Death Star!”

Zev went through an instant of desperate, crazy hope, that nevertheless made his heart race, before realising she didn’t mean the Alderaanian victims, but the crew that had been blown in the blast over Yavin IV. “This isn’t true.”

She stared at him bobbing her head and frowning, as if in a struggle for words and for control over her own facial mimicry. “It _is_ true. The recruiting officer told me.”

“Don’t they teach you historians to beware of bias in your sources?” Probably no, they didn’t. On the condition the sources were pre-approved by the Empire.

“And who are you,” she raised her voice, “to tell me it’s true or not? You weren’t there, were you? You never went to Naboo, or to university at all, did you?”

Zev made a sound between a huff and a hush, glaring at whomever happened to stroll down that lane—officers with girls and boys hooked to their arm, all of them—and cast a glance to the bench he and Annice had colonised. _Just a lovers’ quarrel, nothing to see here, Huttfuckers_.

“Then, if you don’t know what you’re talking about, please shut up and don’t jump to conclusions.” She crossed her arms over a disappointingly undergrown chest.

“Anyway, my point still stands.” He sat back on the bench, spreading his legs and arms so as to take up as much space as possible.

Annice inched further back, until her ass was perched on the edge of the bench.

Guilt poked at Zev, as cold and thin as a needle. _She’s an Imperial, remember. You’re going to be killing people like her, soon enough. No point being chivalrous_. “The Tarkin Doctrine is of no use in academia. I have doubts about its usefulness in strategy, too, but what do I know!” He laughed. “I’m just a COMPNOR momong, after all.”

“Me too,” mumbled Annice.

A few long seconds passed in mutual glowering. Zev was all too familiar with this moment. The dawning realisation you might have just blathered out the wrong word to the wrong person. So you tried to recall if you’d ever seen the other person’s face before, during training or in personnel databanks. If any of your superiors or comrades ever subtly warned you against them.

He smirked first. “How charming, _colleague_.” It was enough to make her blink, and wince again. Lieutenant Veers clacked his tongue in disapproval. “I did not attend a fancy university, that’s true. And this is the reason.” He jabbed a thumb at the rank bar on his tunic, and spared a fleeting gleeful thought at jabbing a vibroblade into his father’s chest in that very spot. “I earned it. You have no idea how hard it was. You, instead… So easy to throw off balance, so oblivious and naïve about your own discipline. From what I see, you’re quite the worst of both worlds.”

Annice didn’t say a word. He lolled his head back, eyes to the ring in the sky, and even without looking he felt the weight of her distress. It made him sick, but he forced himself to keep smiling.

“Asshole,” she whispered.

“Pardon me? I didn’t hear,” he lied mockingly, daring her to repeat the insult aloud.

Just as expected, the girl was a coward. “I’m telling my CO about you.”

“Praising my handsome appearance and interesting conversation? Why, thanks, I’m flattered.”

“No! About how utterly disrespectful and… and…”

“Oh, I’m _so_ terrified.”

“You should be. The general will have you sent to count rocks on Polis Massa.”

Zev laughed. He considered dropping his father’s name; it always amused him to watch people lose their bluster as soon as they realised in shock, and not a little disappointment, that this annoying boy was none other than Iron Max Junior. But what was the point? Soon he would be a Rebel.

 _Soon_.

He whipped his left arm off the back of the bench and read the hour. “Fuck!” He snatched the suitcase, leapt to his feet and broke into a run. He thought he could hear Annice laugh behind his back. Fuck his overactive imagination, too; this wasn’t the time for guilt-tripping. He bumped against a passer-by or two, and they yelled at him. He cut through the grass beds, and had to jump over a few half-undressed bodies sunbathing and one couple wrapped up in each other’s arms and legs, naked and pale like sarlacc tentacles.

When he had to slow to a halt, almost vomiting from the effort, covered in sweat under the uniform, he was out of the park. Despite his willpower, his body could only hobble through the fifty meters that separated him from the hovertram stop.

The tram started moving when he was halfway there. No amount of arm-waving and calling the driver’s mother a Hutt could halt it. He leaned against the sidewalk railing until his panting eased, and glared at the stop sign display: nine standard minutes until the next tram.

“Bloody hell,” he hissed, still short of breath.

“You said it, friend,” echoed another officer waiting at the stop. “I was supposed to be at my fiancé’s thirty standard minutes ago. First time he introduces me to his folks, you know. Had no idea they meant the hour in local time.”

Zev didn’t answer. The other officer eventually paced away down the sidewalk.

Interspersed with the tram timetable, the display also aired recruitment ads; when AT-ATs and stormtroopers appeared on screen, Zev looked away. The last face he wanted to see today was his father’s.

It took the tram one more agonising minute, on top of the scheduled nine, to float in and bank to the stop. From the HoloNet site of the Kuat City public transport, the ten stops between here and the spaceport hadn’t seemed like a big deal to Zev. The tram car was packed, with no free seating; Zev sent begrudging thanks to those strands of Veers DNA that had granted him a height above one meters eighty, so at least he had a bit more breathing room. Sometimes he couldn’t feel the suicide pill in his pocket anymore, and his heart picked up a quick march tempo before his hand had even made it to his trousers, fingering the small foil wrap in the synth-wool.

The tram chose one such moment to steer hard to port, just when he wasn’t holding onto the handrail on the ceiling. He knocked back-to-back against a grey-moustached Army colonel, which kept him from falling but also forced him to apologise, with a profusion of _yessirs,_ to every insult the colonel answered him with.

So much for making himself inconspicuous.

Still puffing with outrage, the colonel alighted one stop before the spaceport.

Zev took a deep breath—not a very wise choice, used as he was to body odours in cramped spaces—and looked at the chrono: ten minutes to the rendezvous. He’d have to make a dash. His throat was dry and his right ankle burned and throbbed in his boot, but he was going to run. To that purpose, he elbowed and excused his way through the crowd towards the right hatch of the tram.

The car skidded to a halt and the loudspeakers came alive with a peal. “ _Current stop_ ,” announced the same feminine droid voice as the one on the ferry, “ _Imperial Spaceport. Doors open to the left_.”

Fuck.

No time for pleasantries now. He bent his head and hurled himself through the crowd, pushing through bodies and irritated yelps and cries of, “Hey, watch your step!”

The alert signal rang, and he stumbled out of the tram in the nick of time before the door slid closed.

Eight minutes to the rendezvous. Zev silently thanked the Three Goddesses for the COMPNOR clearances in his code cylinder that allowed him to jump the queue at the entrance turnstiles. One of the stormtroopers guarding the gates turned to look at him as he sped past, and he forced himself to slow down to a brisk gait—something that spelled out _confident Imperial officer going somewhere important_ rather than _desperate deserter late for rendezvous_.

Five minutes. Shit, how could have three standard minutes fled so quickly? He started towards the landing strip his contact had marked out as rendezvous point, and found his way blocked by an entire squadron of TIE pilots.

His voice went shrill with impatience, “Out of my way!”

Several shiny black helmeted heads turned towards him, and he instantly knew he’d cocked this up.

One of them, Flight Captain rank badge on his flight suit, stood spread-legged and hands-on-hips in front of him. Zev bumped hard against the pilot officer’s chest plate. “Sorry, sir,” he stammered, “but I—”

“ _You_ do not get to give Pike Squadron orders, Lieutenant,” she cut in.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, not another dressing-down. He pretended to cast a downward glance of contrition: the chrono read three minutes to the rendezvous. All in all, the feeling was genuine.

Alarm sirens blared to life.

One of the Pike Squadron pilots yelled in his helmet over the din, “Captain, is this another drill?”

“Not in the nine wet hells,” she said.

It was his chance. Zev stood as upright as he could and did his best impression of General Veers: “This is the reason I need you to move out! I’m COMPNOR, Captain.”

Pike Squadron enacted an evasive manoeuvre; whatever the thought police had to do with the alarm, none wanted any part in it until specific orders came. Bless the military mind.

Zev darted towards Landing Strip 12, in the wake of a platoon of stormtroopers. They seemed to materialise out of thin air and, as far as he could see, their blasters were set to kill.

Could it be…? No. No. Fuck, no.

He caught up with the officer leading the platoon. “What’s going on?”

“An emergency at Landing Strip 12.”

Zev’s heartrate became one and the same with the thump of the stormtroopers’ boots on the marble floor. The officer kept talking and Zev watched her mouth move, but he couldn’t hear a word between the drumming in his ears and the wail of the sirens: _shootout_ … _four_ … _wounded_ …

He plunged his hand in his pocket, uncomfortable as the position was for running, and held fast onto the suicide pill.

Landing Strip 12 turned out to host a row of _Lambda_ -class shuttles. Amongst the many things Zev didn’t know about his fellow defectors was their means of escape; he too would have picked a Lambda to slip away unobserved. A thin tendril of smoke rose from one.

It was like gravity itself were repelling him. Zev tottered to a halt, falling out of step with the platoon commander. The ranks of soldiers in white plasteel armour clattered on past him. It was now or never, he thought. But what? Eating the pill? Leaving and pretending nothing had happened?

The stormtroopers surrounded the smoking shuttle. He couldn’t see much with the other ships in the way, but he heard the loud, angry command, “Freeze! Hands up!”

Zev had never met any of his fellow deserters. He didn’t know their names and how many of them would be at the rendezvous. But he was not abandoning anyone to an Imperial retaliation. His right foot felt like the flesh had split open, and it was painful to flex his ankle, but he grit his teeth and plodded over to the shuttle. The smoke was coming out of the cockpit, whose front viewports had been shattered open. Transparisteel shards lay all over the ground.

Despite the alarm, several technicians had remained on the landing strip, and were now watching the scene: some stormtroopers barged up the ramp of the shuttle, while the others surrounded and aimed their blasters at one lone blood-soaked man, who was also being yelled at by their commander.

“…an’ I’m tellin’ ya,” the blood-soaked man was yelling back, arms held up in a pose that managed to convey more irritation than surrender, “I’m on yer side, y’absolute koochoo!”

“It’s what a double-crosser would say,” mumbled a technician, “if they caught him red-handed.”

“Pretty darn red-handed,” mumbled another, and they snickered.

In fact, barely a square millimetre of olive drab remained on the man’s clothes. As he spoke, he wiped his mouth and spat repeatedly. Gross.

Zev stepped past the stormtroopers, broken transparisteel creaking ominously under his boots. When he stood near the platoon officer, he noticed how pale the man was. “Lieutenant, what happened?” He hadn’t meant to, but he sounded a hell of a lot like his father.

It worked on the other lieutenant like a Jedi mind trick. “Someone commed the control tower claiming there was a defection attempt going on—”

“An’ that mindful citizen would be me,” croaked the blood-soaked man.

From up close, the smell of blood and gore made Zev feel dizzy. He swallowed back a heave, focused all his physical strength—which he knew was not little—on standing upright and still, and stared at the blood-soaked man. “Who are you?”

The blood-soaked man smiled. Even his teeth were red. His breath blew out a metallic odour when he spoke. “You’re the first to ask the real poignant question, me lad. Well done. Cap’n Sarkli, NavIntel. If you have never heard of me ‘n my mission, then I’ve been doin’ my job just right.” He dropped his arms, and the lieutenant drew in a breath to growl at him to keep them up, but didn’t say anything. Just to be sure.

“Your mission?” asked Zev.

The stormtroopers were back in that moment down the ramp. “Sir,” said the squad leader, “we didn’t find any survivors. Only three bodies were identifiable.”

Captain Sarkli let out a strained laugh. “Y’re gonna need a forensic team for the rest, lass!” Zev clenched his jaw until the pressure made his ears ache. An acidic wave pushed its way up his gorge.

“Call in the forensics team,” the lieutenant sulkily ordered the stormtrooper noncom.

“An’ a medic, if you don’t mind,” Sarkli added. He spoke to the trooper, not to the lieutenant, who didn’t miss the slight. “Y’see, I’d infiltrated this band o’ defectors.” Sarkli gestured at the shuttle. “But they blew themselves up to itty bits ‘fore I could arrest the lot of ‘em.”

“Defectors,” Zev repeated under his breath. Sweat trickled down his back, and Sarkli’s eyes lingered on him.

“My superiors will have to ask for confirmation of this story, _Captain_ ,” the other lieutenant cut in insouciantly. “Not to be disrespectful, of course.”

Disrespect or not, Sarkli ignored him and kept staring at Zev, frowning. As if trying to remember where he’d seen his face. It could be two things: one, a HoloNet News report on the Hero of Hoth, and his evident resemblance to that man despite Zev’s efforts at concealing it; two, this NavIntel arsehole _knew_. It did his feeling of impending sickness no good, but he had to beat Sarkli to that connection. He smiled as best as he could. “I look familiar, sir, don’t I? My old man has been making the rounds on the HoloNet as of late—”

“Lieutenant Zevulon Veers.”

He knew. He knew. Fuck. _He knew_. Zev felt the collective attention shift onto him—the entire stormtrooper platoon, even as the soldiers moved out of the way of the medical team. “ _That_ Veers?” one tried to whisper, and the helmet vocoder amplified the sound so that it was unmistakable.

Zev laughed. It came out squeaky. Not what anyone expected from a relation of the Hero of Hoth. “Haha, yes. But actually, I haven’t seen my father in person since—”

“You knew Captain Velita Lully, didn’cha?”

“…Passingly. Why?”

A medical orderly pushed Sarkli down to sit on a hovergurney. Sarkli’s eyes, unsettlingly wide and white in his red-splattered face, remained fixed on Zev. “Bollocks, wermo. Lully an’ you were chummy on Prefsbelt.”

Zev swallowed heavily, unconcerned about anyone noticing. “And your point is…?”

“She was their leader.”

Bioscanner in hand, the medical orderly said, “Lie down.”

Sarkli flopped like an empty sack. The orderlies started pushing the hovergurney before his body had even hit the flimsy mattress. After a momentary hesitation, the lieutenant sent two stormtroopers to follow it. You could never be too careful.

Which Zev had completely, spectacularly failed to do for a long time. Velita Lully; classmates had nicknamed her ‘Vel Blast-‘em-All’. She and Zev used to be chummy until he broke things off: his certainty she was friendly with him because of who his father was gave him migraines and insomnia. He would never have pegged her as a Rebel sympathiser, let alone a defector.

Then again, the secured HoloNet protocols and ciphered codes his contact had used to update him on the plan _had_ struck him as familiar from his academy training.

“Lieutenant? Lieutenant?”

He blinked, realising the medic was talking to him.

“Unless you’re injured, you have to leave the area.”

Other hovergurneys were being pushed down the ramp of the shuttle. What lay on them made Zev bend over and throw up, clutching the suitcase to his strained stomach.

“Never mind,” said the medic.

Zev felt hands on him, and rasped a weak ‘no’ in-between heaves. They weren’t touching his trousers pockets, though, so he let himself be lain down when the floodgates exhausted their load. The gurney was as uncomfortable as a detention cell bunk. The orderly’s face blocked his view of the sky, for the short time the medic needed to stretch his eyelids open and check his pupils.

Then the hovergurney moved. Past the veil of smoke and the thin border line of the orbital ring, the sky was mockingly clear with the promise of freedom.


	2. Chapter 2

Sure, the environmental sim rooms on the _Executor_ were nice. Hundreds of pre-set planetary sunlight conditions to provide long-spacefaring Human bodies the vitamin D they needed.

The training grounds were nicer yet. Customisable obstacles and room temperature, customisable numbers and types of remotes, training droids and dummy targets—for all that General Veers greatly preferred war games between teams of his own troops.

But no top-notch technology could beat the feel of real earth beneath his feet, real sunlight pouring on the skin his outfit left uncovered (a good deal of it, legs and arms especially, to soak in as much light as possible), and the smell of grass up his nostrils at every breath, as he jogged down the park lane.

People were the only downside. Veers couldn’t shake off the bothersome feeling of being watched; his battle brain linked the sensation to enemy presence, observation posts, spy droids, sniper rifles. Good fucking luck explaining to that side of himself this place was peaceful, and the passers-by (most of them Imperial military) were looking at him because they’d seen his face on the HoloNet.

Or because, as Admiral Piett had told him once or twice during off-duty night cycle hours, he had nice legs. He wondered how Piett was going to like them with a bit of suntan on, and the thought gave an extra spring to his steps.

The noises that surrounded him were that of animals chirping, leaves rustling, Human voices, and the muffled buzz of the city beyond the green. Annoying as the staring was, he only had diffident looks to spare for the less populated pathways that led into the heart of the park, deeper into the trees; he ran straight past those crossroads, staying safely in the main lane. Peaceful loyal world or not, Veers was _never_ venturing into woodland alone and without a blaster again; Felucia had taught him that much.

That reminded him, he was supposed to have a running companion. They should have met—he slowed down and studied the pedometer on his wrist—six hundred meters ago. Lieutenant Kijé’s tracking device showed her position as a blue dot, far down the pathway map and not moving.

Veers considered comming her. But talking would disrupt his breathing frequency, and that would disrupt the running. Instead, he quickened his pace. He wasn’t used to the gravity and the weather yet, and his body wasn’t young and indestructible anymore, but Iron Max hadn’t made it to general by refusing to challenge himself.

When he caught up with Kijé, he was drenched in sweat but felt like he could keep up that running rhythm for a while. Only minor fatigue burdened his muscles. Up yours, approaching fifties.

As for Kijé, she was slumped on a bench, with an arm slung across her face. Veers just stood there, blocking the sun over her for several seconds. His breathing and heartrate were again normal by the time he spoke up, “Are you dead, Lieutenant?”

Reacting to the general’s voice was a reflex for Kijé; albeit poorly trained, she was still a junior officer. She removed her arm from her face, revealing eyes brimming with tears, and sat up straight. “No, sir,” she said in a feeble, flat voice.

“That’s a good start.” Veers sat on the bench next to her, careful that his big frame didn’t take up too much space. Rest felt a bit too nice for his own taste; he made a mental note to hit the gym on the _Executor_ more often, once Death Squadron was out on a mission again.

Kijé wiped her nose. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t be crying.”

“Thank the stars discipline is lax on shore leave. What happened?”

She looked down and fell silent, looked up again, down again. While she decided whether she could tell him or not, Veers unhooked a small flask off his belt and took a sip of energy drink. Usually he didn’t mind the effervescence and the metallic taste, but after smelling fresh caf from the shops that lined every street of Kuat City, it tasted like sewage water. He held the flask to Kijé, and couldn’t blame her when she waved the offer away.

“It was a man, sir,” she said at last.

“A man as in, an old man? Like me?”

He hadn’t meant it as a self-effacing joke, but she smiled a little as she quickly rubbed her eyes dry. So he let it slide.

“Not quite like you, sir. _He_ was a complete asshole.”

“Not quite like me. Thanks, Lieutenant.” Veers had to smile. After the first time Kijé had blurted out a swear word while training with the Thunderers, the stormtroopers had grown friendlier to her; good to see the habit had stuck.

“And he was young. I mean, around my age.”

Veers intercepted a quick glance at his mop of sweaty greying hair. “No, Lieutenant,” he said, “there is no diplomatic way to tell an old man he’s growing old.”

“…I beg to differ, sir.”

He laughed, but stopped at once when he saw she wasn’t joining in the hilarity. At least she wasn’t crying anymore.

“So,” Veers said, “this young man—was he a civilian?”

Kijé wrinkled her runny nose. “COMPNOR junior officer. The kind who thinks the entire galaxy bows to his superior intellect.”

“Hmpf. There are Huttfuckers like that in every branch of the service.”

“He… he lectured me on history. _Me_!” She swatted a bang of blonde hair off her forehead. “I almost got a degree in that stuff! And he? He just… fired off a barrage of nonsense, and when I called him out on the banthacrap, he got all insulting and arrogant.” She swatted her hair back again, only for it to spring out of place once more. Her cheeks were red from sunlight and fervour. “Sometimes I… I wonder why I bother _trying_ with people at all. I mean, you and Visdei and the Thunderers are alright, sir, but…” A woman in ISB whites strolled by, and even though she didn’t spare a glance to Kijé and Veers, Kijé shut her mouth until the ISB officer was gone. “Honestly, sir, sometimes I miss the days when I only had my protocol droid and my computer to talk to. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

“I understand why you would take it personally, sunshine. I had the same problem with Rear Admiral Jerjerrod, a couple years ago.” Veers had heard that pompous bolt-brain had made it to Moff. Poor Empire.

“Oh?”

“Yes. He thought he knew walkers better than me.” Veers took another swig of energy drink. “Insulting and arrogant; then what did that little poodoo stain do?”

Kijé shrugged and gestured towards the pathway. “He left all of a sudden. At least he didn’t see me cry.”

“Yes, that would have encouraged him to press on the attack.” A wisp of guilt crept across his mind; he could have hurried up a bit, and been present while Kijé was being ill-treated. Should have been present, and prevented it. “Did you get his name and rank?”

Her rage evaporated all of a sudden. “Are you going to investigate him, sir?”

“Why not? He might be a serial troublemaker. And the weeds must be culled out of the service from time to time.” The ISB officer from a minute ago would have liked that turn of phrase.

Kijé pinched the bridge of her sun-peeled nose. “Gracious Shiraya, please don’t make me uncover another desertion plot.”

“Now, now, Lieutenant, you’re jumping to conclusions. He might simply be an asshole who’s better off counting rocks on Polis Massa than… anywhere his post is.” Veers smirked. “I only mean to verify, and act on what information I gather.”

“I… yes, sir.” She gave up the struggle with her hair, and looped a strand around her forefinger. “He didn’t tell me his full name, actually. Nor did I mine!”

Veers almost scoffed at that fretting reassurance. How in the nine wet hells was this woman not just an officer, but twenty-three standard years old? “You did well,” he said instead.

“And he was a lieutenant, I saw the rank badge. He did tell me his first name… Zev, that’s it!”

A set of blast-proof doors shut somewhere deep in Veers’ chest, heavy and paralysing. But he forced himself to breathe normally. It was just a name. A coincidence. “Short for Zevulon?”

Kijé clapped her hands together. “Yes! How did you know?”

To avoid looking her in the eye, he pretended to screw the lid of the flask tighter. “Wild guess. A while ago, it used to be a fairly common name on Denon.” At least on the part of the planet Eliana came from. It was her grandfather’s name. He thought it sounded silly, and one man with a silly name in the family was enough, but she had insisted. “What… what did he look like?”

“Uh, well—tall. A bit shorter than you. Young… well, around my age, this I told you. I mean, I apologise for repeating myself, sir…” A slanting glare was enough to push her out of the embarrassed sidetrack, “Non-regulation hair, definitely too long, reddish.”

Shit.

“Thin moustache and patchy sideburns,” she sneered, “and a lot of acne.”

_Shit._

“Green… well, green or grey eyes, I didn’t focus long enough to identify the colour clearly.”

“Shit,” Veers muttered.

“Sir?”

He got to his feet and threw her the flask. “Keep it and drink it. I know it doesn’t taste as good as caf, but it’s not poison and it’s free.”

“Huh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir...”

While she cleared her throat and mustered the gall and breath to politely ask what in blazes was wrong with him, Veers padded away along the lane. Thank the stars, Kijé didn’t follow him.

He made his way back to the apartment he’d been assigned for the duration of this leave. The map estimated a twenty standard minutes’ walk from that point of the park to the house, but he covered the distance in a ten minutes’ run, including the stairs to the fifth floor because the lift was occupied.

The door of the apartment chirped at his retina scan and access code, and slid open.

Once inside, he sagged to the rug on the floor, panting and wiping sweat off his brow with the front of his shirt. Like everything else in the freshly cleaned apartment, the rug smelled of laundry to the point it made his nose itch.

Veers yanked his comlink off his belt, stared at it for a few seconds, then kicked off his shoes first. “Fuck,” he said aloud. Already making up excuses. Pathetic. Cowardly. This wasn’t the Max Veers who’d earned his rank bars, dammit.

Then again, that Max Veers was a galaxy away when Eliana—

He dashed to the refresher and tapped on the cold water button of the sink. Still holding the comlink in one hand, he splashed water all over his face. It felt weirdly odourless, without the germicide chemicals they poured in the water tanks of Imperial Navy ships. He ignored the all-too-clean towel and used his shirt again.

While that little diversion was in act, his thumb dialled Zev’s number on the comlink.

The device started beeping. Veers held his breath in front of the mirror. It beeped on and on. “Come on,” he hissed through his teeth, “come on, pick it up. Come on, you stubborn boy.”

A click interrupted the beeping, and he nearly dropped the comlink.

An unknown female voice spoke up, “This is Sergeant Hersend of the Imperial Sanitary Corps, operating number RP-285—”

“And you aren’t supposed to answer to this comlink number,” Veers snarled. “Where is Lieutenant Veers?”

“Sir, I need to ask who you are and how you got Lieutenant Veers’ name and comlink number—”

He wanted to shout that he was the lad’s father, for bleeding fuck’s sake, and bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood and had to spit it out in the sink. After he’d growled to the MedCorps sergeant his name, rank and ident number, Hersend turned as honey-sweet and willing to help as a brothel madam.

Veers did not have a high opinion of brothel madams. “Why did you answer this call, Sergeant? What happened to Lieutenant Veers?”

“He has been hospitalised in the Imperial military spaceport medbay, sir.”

“He—what?”

Hersend prattled on over him, unperturbed, “There has been an accident at the spaceport, sir.”

An accident…

Kuat disappeared. Veers was standing on attention in a shelled-out fort on Gree, so many parsecs away from home it boggled the mind. Colonel Calman was expressing her condolences…

No. No. Shit, no. He slapped his cheek, back to the present and to the obnoxiously clean apartment on Kuat. Eliana had been dead for years. The female voice ringing in his ears was some random MedCorps noncom, not his colonel during the Gree campaign. Colonel Calman was dead, too.

“Lieutenant Veers happened to be on the site of the accident,” Sergeant Hersend was saying, so affable that Veers wanted to punch her through the comm, “and the medics immediately assisted him. He was brought in here at once and received all the treatment he needed.”

Veers sat down on the edge of the bathtub, unable to process what he was hearing any further. The force of habit after years on the frontlines allowed his voice not to crack, “How badly is he injured?”

“He was not wounded in the blast, sir.” That should have come as a relief, but Hersend’s chipper tone made his stomach churn. “It appears he was bitten by a saw-wasp earlier today, and suffered a mild poisoning from the insect’s biotoxins.”

“What in blazes do _insects_ have to do with an accident at the spaceport?”

“Sir, I understand you are—”

“Let me speak to him. This instant. And no, I don’t want to talk to your CO. I want to talk to Lieutenant Veers.”

There was a buzzing noise at the other side of the comm. Either Sergeant Hersend whimpering in terror, or the comlink being jostled around. Then a yawn and a drawled, “Uhh, hello?”

Just the sound of that groggy voice made Veers hold his breath and sit up straight.

Zev cleared his throat into a shoddy excuse for militarism, “Lieutenant Veers here. Who am I speaking with, please?”

“Zev, it’s me.”

Silence.

“Your father.”

Silence.

Veers ran a hand through his hair. Fuck, he was cold and sweaty and shaking. “I heard about the spaceport.”

Silence.

“Are you alright?”

 _Click_.

Slowly, Veers lowered his arms to rest on his thighs. The tremor in his hands was evident, and clenching his fists didn't stop it. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. As if he hadn’t known for a long time the boy was better off without him—Zev couldn’t have spelled it out any clearer, _General, sir, I would rather avoid all contact with you in the future and I hope you as my father respect my wish_ , the last time they’d met. Two standard years ago. Time had flown fast in the complete lack of communication. It may not have healed the wounds but it had anesthetised them. And among the many unpleasant things being repeatedly WIA had taught him, there was the fact that painkillers don’t last forever.

He stripped out of the sports clothes and went rifling in his trunk for a change of underwear and a uniform. The shower could wait.

As soon as he’d finished dressing, he commed for a speeder, “Ready by the instant I step out of the outer gate, Major.”

“Sir, yessir. I’m sending up an escort, too.”

“For stars’ sake, I don’t need it! Just get me a speeder.”

The snappish tone would have intimidated lesser sentients, but Major Tantor was used to it. “I apologise, sir, but after the attack at the spaceport, General Shale issued an order that no officer above the rank of colonel should circulate without an armed escort.”

“Attack? They told me it was an accident!” Veers exited the apartment and banged a fist on the lift call button.

“This is what the civilian media will be told, too,” Tantor explained. “Naval Intelligence swears it was a Rebel bombing. I’m not quite sure myself, sir. The garrison people view me as an outsider and hold back on the full gossip.”

Veers leaned against the wall of the lift. _He’s fine_. A mild poisoning, already treated. Nothing that had to do with whatever the fuck had happened at the spaceport. He stared at his reflection in the mirror-display on the opposite wall, sandwiched between a top and a bottom bar of restaurant ads and weather forecast. He stared at it until worry gave way to the usual stern face of The General.

“Sir? Sir? Are you still there?”

“Just get me that speeder.”

“It’s on the way, sir.”

Veers closed the comm. The lift door opened, and for a moment he felt lost in the marble-white hall of the palace and the flower vases surrounding the front yard. His distracted brain expected the durasteel blueish corridors of the _Executor_.

Damn, he wished Piett were here now. Just to tell him he was an absolute berk for fretting. He was about to comm him, but through the bars of the gate he could already see a pair of troopers on speeder bikes pull to the side of the road, and a closed-roof speeder halt behind them.

The gate opened automatically after scanning his eyes, but to save time he gave it a push and slipped through the interstice as soon as it was large enough to let him pass. He sat into the speeder and told the driver, “The military spaceport, fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

To the driver’s credit, she did get him to the spaceport fast. And to the credit of the vaunted Kuati loyalty to the Empire, many speeders and public transport hoverbuses shifted aside to free the road for the improvised convoy.

Nevertheless, Veers was soon tapping his fingertips on the window sill and wishing he’d had a drink before leaving the apartment—‘Corellian courage’, as the troopers called it.

“Do you have any idea what happened at the spaceport?” he asked.

“Has something happened at the spaceport, sir?” She glanced at him, and what she could read on his face made her turn her full attention back to the road, and accelerate.

After what his brain screamed had been hours but what the speeder’s navigator counted as eleven standard minutes, Veers could finally hurl himself out of the vehicle and bully his way past the triple sentries at the entrance of the spaceport.

A burly, middle-aged captain immediately strode up to him, holding up a hand. “I apologise, sir, but unless you have a pass granted by General Shale you cannot—”

“Tell me where the medbay is or I’m going to comm Lord Vader.”

“Sir—”

“And _you_ can tell _him_ everything about your pass.” Veers waved the comlink under the captain’s nose; had the woman not been so dark-skinned, she probably would have gone as pale as a Hoth landscape.

“TT-4015!” she called to a stormtrooper nearby. “Show the general to the medbay.” As Veers turned to leave following the stormtrooper, she snapped to a perfect attention, complete with clicking heels, that he ignored.

The medbay was a spacious, well-lit place, that smelled of minty air freshener more than it did of disinfectant. It wasn’t crammed; only five or six people were sitting in the waiting room. Veers scolded himself for expecting the sight of an aid station after a pitched battle. He went to the counter, demanded to be shown Lieutenant Veers, and didn’t even have to resort to threats; the MedCorps clerk looked at him, then at his rank badge, and pointed towards the corridor that led into the medbay. “Room 12, sir. I’ll prepare the paperwork you must sign when your visit is over.”

“Very good.” At last, someone with a grain of sense on this planet. Veers stomped into the corridor, eyeing the room numbers; as they progressed towards 12, his footsteps became lighter and shorter until he slowed to a complete halt two paces shy of the door. It was open and he could hear voices inside.

A tinkling mechanical one, surely a medidroid’s, “…advise against getting up so early, sir. Your fever will need a few standard hours to subside completely.”

And Zev’s, “I told you, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Veers saw shadows move on the slice of floor that was visible in the threshold from that angle. He kept his eyes there, took a deep breath, and strode inside the room. Only then did he dare to look up.

The young man who gaped back, perched on a bed and frozen while he was buttoning up his tunic, seemed like a total stranger for the whole duration of a heartbeat. Longer hair than he’d been sporting the day of his graduation, when he already stood out among his shorn classmates; pitifully thin facial hair, and streaks of rosy acne criss-crossing his cheeks.

Zev’s expression soured. There it was again, that sulk Veers had seen on the little boy who refused to speak to his father.

“Pardon me, sir,” the medidroid cut in, “but visiting hours are—”

“Leave me and my son alone for a minute,” Veers ordered. Zev worked his jaw, but said nothing.

The medidroid glided out of the room, shaking his steel head and muttering something about _this_ being the very first chapter of his Human psychology files.

Zev slid off the bed, leaning with his lower back against its side. Veers’ stupid heart raced, and he almost stepped forward to hug his son to keep him from walking away; then he noticed Zev was barefoot. His right ankle was swollen and wrapped in a green-tinted antipruritic bandage.

“I know how that feels,” said Veers, to be answered only through sulk and silence. He wasn’t sure what exactly stoked the rising anger in him: Zev’s behaviour, his injury, his own powerlessness at protecting the boy from whatever the hell had happened. “Even the mouse droids have heard the _Executor_ is docked here. You _had_ to know I am here.”

Zev’s fists clenched onto the edge of the bed. Not a word yet.

Shit, this was useless. Without much success, Veers tried to smooth the anger off his voice. To sound soothing and, well, like a concerned father. Why the hell was it so difficult? “I heard you got caught up in that mess today. You… you should have commed me right away. You know I’m always here for you.”

Zev raised an eyebrow. It emphasised the surliness of his face rather than breaking it. Veers had retained enough mental pictures of Eliana in a bad mood to be sure that wasn’t a trait Zev had inherited from her; it came from his strand of the DNA.

“Yeah. You _always_ are,” Zev said.

Veers heard himself gasp, "What?" before he could think and hold his tongue.

“Did you hope I’d forgotten,” Zev quietly, flatly twisted the vibroblade into the wound, “now that I’m older?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

No. No, he would not forget, ever. Neither of them would. Veers shook his head, struggled for words, but on Zev's cold fury everything was going to have the same effect as a soldier's foot in an unmarked minefield.

Retreat was the least bloody option. “I... I am glad you’re alright.”

Zev reverted to silence. Veers swallowed the urge to raise his voice, no clue if to yell at his son or, worse, to let loose the sobs that were clogging his throat. Experience had taught him neither was going to work. “Do you have a place to stay?” He could only care for Zev inasmuch as the boy allowed him to. Thanks weren’t needed. “You don't have to tell me where.”

“Yes. I have a place.”

“If you need anything at all, please—”

“I need you to leave me alone, dad.”

Veers shuffled one half step backwards. Zev hadn’t bothered keeping quiet; everyone who might have been in the corridor could have heard. The medidroid, the nurses and orderlies, and the other patients. Veers felt flush with shame. Yet, Zev had called him ‘dad’ for the first time in... how long? “Fine. Fine. Good day, Lieutenant.”

Zev straightened and saluted. The bandaged foot didn't hinder him. Yes, he was going to be fine. He didn't need his idiotic, absent, piss-poor excuse for a father.

In a light-headed haze, like being tipsy but with none of the alcohol-induced euphoria, Veers lumbered out of the room and out of the medbay.

He only realised the receptionist had gone after him, armed with a form datapad and a stylus, when he was within sight of the sentries at the gate. The receptionist was short of breath from the pursuit; surely an effect of the clerk being out of shape, sitting on his lazy afterburners the whole day. Veers had been walking at his usual pace, not any faster. His retreat had _not_ been a flight.

The speeder and its escort were waiting parked where he’d left them. He slumped into the speeder and when the driver asked, “Where to, sir?” he was tempted to order a ride to the nearest cantina.

“Back to my quarters.”

“Fast, sir?”

“Fast.”

It took them less time than the drive to the spaceport. It wasn’t a trick of Veers’ distressed mind: he counted the minutes on the navigation screen, nine versus eleven. He tapped a finger on the display. “This is what I mean when I say ‘fast’. What possessed you to think the return trip was more urgent than the round trip?”

“It was my mistake, sir. It won’t be repeated, sir.”

Without another word, lest he snapped beyond the limits of Irritable Grumpy Senior Officer, Veers stepped out of the speeder and hoofed it past the gate, into the courtyard with its smelly flowers, into the lift and into the apartment.

He felt dirty, stiff with cooled off sweat under the uniform. He whipped off his cap, gloves, boots and tunic, but the instinct not to leave clothes scattered on the floor was stronger than the heartache; the uniform was hung into a wardrobe so big it reminded Veers of the refrigerators they used to store the KIAs, each in their neat bodybag with name and ID chip.

He slammed it closed. It was two meters tall and about three meters wide, yet it shook like he’d punched it at full force.

The whole damn bedroom was too big, too empty, too clean-smelling in a way that did not smell like cleanliness on a Star Destroyer. More like home on Denon. Veers turned on the comm station at the desk facing the bed, and dialled the codes for the _Executor_ and Admiral Piett’s personal inbox.

_Firmus,_

_Can we have some time to speak in private?_

He sent the message. As he waited for it to be marked as delivered and read, he typed and sent another:

_I went jogging, haven’t showered yet. I’m in my shorts and tank top. Got tanned._

The message icon shifted to read. Moments later, Veers’ holocomm station tweeted with an inbound call.

“I love you,” Veers whispered, stroking the answer button.


	3. Chapter 3

“Yes, my lord,” said Admiral Piett, bowing his head but without averting his eyes from the obsidian faceplate in the comm display. “Should you need any situation update beside my daily reports—”

Lord Vader disappeared, replaced by blocky Aurebesh on the screen: _Call terminated_.

Piett inhaled and exhaled deeply, tasting the recycled air of his office on the _Executor_ like almost every night he tasted the lingering smell Veers left in the bedsheets.

All things considered, His Lordship wasn’t in a bad mood. In fact, the overall mood Lord Vader had been in since Bespin was the closest to distracted Piett and everyone else in Death Squadron had ever seen him.

Piett sat back into his chair, stretching his neck and allowing his burning eyes a bit of early rest. The only downside of having a lover was the loss of precious sleeping hours, when these were already few and troubled. He was going to wish shore leave were over one standard week into it, but for now he thanked the stars for the repair work on the _Executor_ : fifteen standard days. Two weeks of peace. Lord Vader had travelled to Coruscant, and was unlikely to be around any time before Death Squadron was ready to fly again.

To Coruscant, that was, to meet the Emperor. Presumably to report on the mission to Bespin, and the nine hells knew how His Majesty might react to the failed capture of Luke Skywalker—why were they focusing so much effort on capturing that baby-faced pilot, anyway, when Leia Organa had been there, locked up in a cell, her Alderaanian-crowned head lying on a silver plate?

Piett grunted. Trying to make sense of Lord Vader and the Emperor was far above the job of a Fleet Admiral. Maybe Veers was right, ever the simple-minded dirt-pounder, when he teased him for ‘making an intrusive thought out of this matter’.

He reached for the pack of cigarettes ready in the one corner of desk datapads and flimsiplast bumf had left free. The ashtray was a legacy from Ozzel’s admiralty, the skull of a rodent-like creature the late admiral claimed was a Jawa. Piett had _seen_ an actual unmasked, skinned Jawa (not dead, unfortunately for that poor bastard), and the skull didn’t look like this.

He lit a cigarette, then another. The Force that held the galaxy together and allowed Lord Vader to kill people through a comm channel granted him a respite in the calls and messages that usually bombarded his inbox, even these days when most of the _Executor_ ’s crew had left for the shore leave. Piett felt bold enough as to pull a third cigarette out of the pack. The inbox beeped into life again.

“Son of a Hutt,” he muttered, putting cigs and lighter back down.

The instant he read the message sender’s name, a smile crept on his face.

The message said:

_Firmus,_

_Can we have some time to speak in private?_

Piett allowed the smile to fully bloom, but shook his head. As if Veers had seen his gesture across space and atmosphere, another message popped up:

_I went jogging, haven't showered yet. I'm in my shorts and tank top. Got tanned._

That hit Piett in his lower belly. He crossed his legs under the desk. Writing a reply would have been the polite, proper, safe thing to do. Instead, he activated the holocomm and rang the number attached to Veers’ contact details. For all his proclaimed impatience, the laser-brain berk only picked up the call after the fifth beep.

The holo projected a bust-up image of him, admittedly very pleasant, in a tank top that left bare his well-defined shoulders and neck, the skin bearing faint traces of hickeys from their latest nightly meetings. However, the tousled hair prompted Piett to greet him with a raised eyebrow. “Is that awful mess really you, General?”

“Yes, I’m damn well aware I fucked up…” Veers gingerly touched the top of his head. “Huh. You mean _this_ mess. Come on, my helmet hair is worse.”

Piett felt grateful, for safety reasons, and a bit sad, for selfish reasons, that Veers hadn’t mentioned his _bed_ hair. “You wanted to talk to me. I assume you’re aware that I’m still busy at the moment, so if you don’t mind, spit it all out, dirt-pounder.”

Veers’ eyes flicked to the right and left. His hand hadn’t left his hair, and was now scratching the back of his neck.

“Max, is something wrong?”

“…It is, yes. I’d rather not get into details it over the comm.”

“The channel is secure. No Rebel spy is listening,” Piett replied airily, leaving it unsaid that Rebel spies were one thing, the ISB or Naval Intelligence or who knew who else on Kuat were another.

“I know,” said Veers, “but I’d rather talk about it in person. It’s… private.”

Now this was getting odd. Piett narrowed his eyes. “Couldn’t you at least give me a hint? You know I’m busy; I can’t drop my workload to float away into space.”

Veers sighed sharply. “Listen, I don’t… Shit.” Pause, avoidant eyes, another sigh. “I’ve just met my son. It didn’t go well.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. I think I told you Zev and I have a… rather cold relationship. Well, he’s gotten worse. We used to get along… sort of civilly, you know, and now—”

“So you need a friend to buy you a drink or two, don’t you?”

Still mired in dismay, Veers gaped for a moment. Then he cracked an uncertain smile. Better than nothing. “That would be very appreciated, yes.”

“Give me a standard hour.”

“Thank you, Firmus.”

Piett switched off the holocomm before the warm, melting effect that voice had on him became too evident, for whoever might be spying on the conversation (unlikely someone was, anyway; not without Central AI warning him) and for Veers.

He exchanged a glare with the bumf on his desk. A red light blinked on his inbox for Imperial communications, and a blue one for non-Imperial senders. He tapped to open the inbox to the latter source: _Plea for widower pension_ , read the message subject. Captain Needa’s husband again. Poor sorry bastard. Piett switched off the terminal without either reading or deleting the message. He hoped the widower caught the drift at last, and stopped insisting.

Lastly, he recorded a message for his ADC to reorder part of the mess, then left the office. A shuttle had been waiting for him since two standard days ago.

The little _Lambda_ -class vessel seemed forlorn in the vast hangar bay, so empty on these repair days when only a skeleton crew stayed on board. It looked like a cave rather than a hangar. Piett felt small on the passageway that led to the shuttle. He shifted to walk near the handrail, as if in an attempt to appear inconspicuous. There was nothing to fear on the Lady, though, least of all predators (of every sort from aggressive alien drunkards to ghosts of child-abducting Jedi) lurking in the dark corners; this place was no back alley on Axxila, for crying out loud. So he forced his steps back at the centre of the passageway.

Aboard the shuttle, once the Lambda had taken off and glided out into space, he couldn’t resist sauntering over to the cockpit and sitting behind the pilots.

“How can I help you, sir?” asked the pilot, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Piett waved a hand towards the black expanse beyond the transparisteel window. “I’m just enjoying the view, Captain. Do carry on with your duties.”

“Yes, sir.”

The _Executor_ loomed above them as the shuttle sailed towards her aft. The engines afterburners were visible already; maintenance droids and techs in spacesuits dotted the hull. Their short-range propellers and welding tools shone like light-flies around a corpse in the gutter.

 _Sorry, Lady_. Piett almost said that aloud, and wouldn’t have held his tongue if the pilots hadn’t been present. _You are in good hands. And I will be back for you soon_.

Yet, at every kilometre the shuttle flew away from the hangar, he felt his heart growing heavier. As if it had grown a miniature black hole within, and it was interfering with the shuttle’s sim grav.

Farther off into space, the orbital ring stretched out until it was lost into the blackness. Only a razor-thin silhouette was lit by the sunlight; just enough for the naked eye to recognise the shapes of docked Star Destroyers and of smaller ships.

The Lady, however, was the only Super Star Destroyer here. Moored at the same dry-dock they had used to build her. The most beautiful daughter of the Kuat Drive Yards, coming back home and showing everyone how good she’d been.

His face must have turned dreamy with pride and love. The co-pilot cast a quick smile his way and, when the admiral promptly locked inquisitive eyes with him, he said, “That’s better than a holoporn, sir, isn’t it?”

The pilot mashed one foot on the co-pilot’s under the control panel.

“Decorum, Ensign,” said Piett, charging the warning with slightly less sternness than he would have in another time; the co-pilot had lost three quarters of his squadron mates during the asteroid field chase over Hoth. And he was right, anyway. Better than a holoporn.

“Yes, sir. I apologise, sir.”

Soon they were out of the Lady’s shadow. All of a sudden, it was odd to think there was only endless void around them. Just the tiniest tingle of fright. Piett sat down and buckled up, pulling the seatbelt taut so that the sensation grounded him; he needed to fly on small ships more often, and get used to it again.

Another thing he found out he needed to get used to again were clouds.

The shuttle was soon plunging into the atmosphere, piercing through a grey mass of vapour fluff that splashed rain across the cockpit window; it didn’t impress the pilots in the least, but Piett cringed upon instinct. The tight seatbelt kept him stuck into place; it sawed into his flesh, but he was glad it forced him to preserve his dignity.

Blast, he hated rain. Even if, in all likelihood, on Kuat it wasn’t acid.

The sky cleared, Piett breathed evenly to calm the drumming heart in his ribcage, and three TIE fighters materialised at twelve o’clock.

The shuttle comm beeped.

“Why are those groundhogs hailing us?” said the co-pilot.

“Go on and ask them,” muttered the pilot.

The _Executor_ ’s starfighter crew really, badly needed this shore leave. Piett tried to recall if he had given the order: compulsory mental health check-up for all the TIE fighter pilots upon disembarkation and re-embarkation—yes, yes, he had. He remembered signing the forms.

“Unidentified Imperial shuttle, we have you on our screens,” a Core-accented clipped female voice spoke over the comm. “Reduce your speed and identify.”

The pilot said, “It wouldn’t have hurt to say please.”

“Decorum, Captain,” Piett reminded her, just to be safe.

She activated the answercomm and replied in perfect professional speech, “Shuttle _Rothana_ requesting passage to the Kuat City Imperial Spaceport. We are carrying Admiral Piett on board.”

The TIE fighter broke formation, flying circles around the shuttle. They were visible on the control panel radar as blue dots. “Shuttle _Rothana_ ,” said the Coreworlder woman, surely the leader, “Admiral Piett’s debarkation is not scheduled for today.”

The seatbelt felt tighter, and Piett’s throat felt constricted. Ridiculous. He was not being a slack-off; Lord Vader was not going to be displeased with him for so little. He could, and would, still work from the surface. He unbuckled the seatbelt and leaned over to the comm. “Officer, this is Admiral Piett. We shall send our clearance code to the spaceport flight control as soon as we are within landing range—”

“Negative, sir.”

He clacked his teeth together, bristling at being interrupted. Shit, he was turning into Ozzel.

The TIE commander droned on, “The spaceport is under lockdown. Only scheduled transports are allowed to land, unless you have a permit from General Shale.”

“I wasn’t informed of any lockdown.”

“I am not authorised to divulge information, sir.”

The fighters reappeared into view at the front windows, one from the right, one from the left, one from above. Arrogant show-offs. The shuttle crew exchanged glares.

Piett didn’t bother hiding his own irritation, either, “Commander, I am not delaying my shore leave over your awkward attempt at providing security. Shoot this shuttle down if you wish, but be aware you and General Shale will have to explain that to Lord Vader.”

The co-pilot looked worried; the pilot raised a fist in silence.

The fighters circled around the shuttle again, disappearing from the window. Several seconds passed.

“Shuttle _Rothana_ , you are cleared to proceed.”

“Thank you, Commander,” said Piett suavely, and switched off the comm.

The pilot grinned. “Sir, I respectfully request permission to tell you I would high-five you, if it weren’t against rank protocols.”

“The thought is appreciated, Captain, and so are your good manners.”

The pilot and the co-pilot were still grinning from ear to ear by the time the shuttle landed in Kuat City.

Prowling down the ramp with his documents bag hanging in his hand (it annoyed him to no end to have it so exposed to casual snatching, but any other method of carrying it would have been deemed undignified of an admiral), Piett squinted in the unfiltered sunlight at the landing pad. Shuttles and light transports lay lined in their slots, well-polished durasteel glistening in quite too intense a light. He already missed the _Executor_ ’s hangar bays. He paced quickly up to the nearest shaded area, under a terrace that led inside the compound. A group of stormtroopers marched up to him.

“Sir,” said a youthful male voice under the helmet and the commander pauldron, “we have orders to act as your escort.”

“I requested none.” Piett was tempted to push his way through the soldiers. Undignified, undignified. His younger, poorer, scruffier self back home… back _on Axxila_ would have done that.

“These are the orders, Admiral, sir.”

A different rumble than the noise of a transport’s engines—more like a TIE fighter’s but different still—filled the air above them. Piett stole a glance at the passing vehicle: a police gunship. “Fine,” he said. “Are you authorised to tell me what triggered this mess?”

The commander hesitated, either out of embarrassment or checking clearances on his inner helmet visor. “No, sir.”

“Find me someone who _is_ authorised, and have them explain.”

“Yes, sir.” The commander turned and nodded to a stormtrooper. “Go find an officer.”

“Yessah,” the stormtrooper practically cried out. She dashed off and in doing so she knocked against two of her comrades.

Some escort, really.

No more than twenty meters away, the stormtrooper skidded to a halt approaching a Navy officer who had just walked out of the compound, and tugged at the collar of his uniform all the time as the soldier spoke to him. _Stop that_ , Piett thought. It made his own collar feel tight, and tightness around the neck reminded him of Lord Vader.

The officer followed the stormtrooper back to Piett. The admiral had no choice but to watch him as he approached; the tunic fitted him taut on the chest, large and floppy on the shoulders. The sleeves were too long and reached down to his knuckles. The cap sank down on his forehead, shielding his eyes.

The instant the officer—a captain, as per the rank badge; at least it wasn’t pinned askew—stood in front of him, Piett could not hold himself anymore, “Son, you are just impersonating whatever officer that uniform really belongs to, aren’t you?”

The sloppy imitation of a captain stopped tugging at his collar to flick his cap off his eyes. He held Piett’s stare like only a civilian with no sense of hierarchy would have done. Then he pursed his lips. “Well, buggerin’ hell,” he drawled, “a good day ta you, too, uncle Fir.”

Piett flinched, shuddering a step to the side. The dizziness was the same he’d felt over Bespin, when the _Millennium Falcon_ had winked out into hyperspace the very instant before the tractor beam was activated.

“It can’t be,” he whispered. But his memory was already de-ageing the captain’s face, finding striking similarities with his mother’s nose and his father’s chin. Poodoo, he had that sodding bastard’s smile, too. The resemblance was much more evident now than in Haidar’s boyhood. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Why, I am _authorised_!” Haidar opened his arms, and flung himself to Piett in a fit of booming laughter.

Piett tried to step backwards but wasn’t fast enough. All he could do to protect himself was raise the documents bag to his chest. Haidar had grown ten centimetres taller than him, and though nowhere as muscular as Veers, he did have strong arms.

Quietly he hissed to Haidar’s ear, “Let. Go. Of. Me.”

“Naw.”

It had been a blissfully long time since Piett had last heard an accent from his homeworld; he clung to the hope he’d misheard the word, that it meant _now_ instead of _no_. He clung to it for about three beats of Haidar’s heart against the back of his hand, which had ended up crushed between the two of them and the bag.

He stole a glance over Haidar’s shoulders at the stormtroopers. They were standing still, unreadable under their armours and helmets; but they were all watching.

“Captain, regardless of our family relation,” Piett said that loud and clear, ignoring the burning sensation on his face, “this is not appropriate behaviour.”

Haidar’s arms felt limper around him. Piett’s first instinct was to take advantage of the weakness and writhe out of the embrace; he forced himself to wait a few agonising seconds longer, and Haidar let go of him on his own. The fact he was still smiling was a cause for further worry, though.

“Sorry…” Haidar glanced at Piett’s rank badge and raised his eyebrows. “Oi, I didnae know ye’d made it to admiral! Cheers! Did you tell me mum?”

“I did not know you had joined the Imperial Navy.” Piett regained his composure; stern command bridge face, shoulders back, bag hanging from his hand.

The admiral’s demeanour had a sobering effect on Haidar, whose smile dimmed to a more respectable level. “NavIntel, to be proper. Was in Infiltration.” He shrugged. “Was, ‘cos me cover got blown to the ninth hell forever. An’ peace out to it. I was gettin’ scunnered with spy work.”

“Were _you_ the cause of this lockdown?” groused Piett.

“Nawt me!” Haidar raised his hands. Same voice, same gesture, same face as when he denied responsibility for instigating a cantina brawl, or claimed he had no idea the speeder-bikes he and his friends had been racing on were stolen property. “The deserters I was arrestin’, who blew their arses ta bloody bits rather ‘n bein’ taken alive! Can’t blame ‘em but.”

“Do I want to know the details, in the unfortunate case they aren’t under secrecy?”

Haidar laughed; he was picking at his collar again, to add insult to injury. Piett grit his teeth.

“Ain’t nothin’ under secrecy for you, uncle Fir,” he said, “unless my superiors say naw. Which they haven’t yet. Fancy a pint? I hav ta wash this foul taste off me mouth—”

Piett rolled his eyes. “The only thing you need to wash off your mouth is that atrocious accent.” He turned to the stormtrooper commander. “I hope you had the good sense of comming for a speeder while I engaged in this family chat?”

“…I will do at once, sir.”

“Oi, uncle, be gentle.” Haidar patted his shoulder, and Piett  went stiff while fighting the urge to slap it off. “Not all stormies have,” Haidar at least tried to keep his Basic in check, “as much mirshe under their helmets as Sergeant Aberoh.”

They may not have as much brains of that unfortunate, competent cleaned-up sewer rat whom the sewer reclaimed one rainy night in the docks at Little Sundari. But they had good comm arrays. “The speeder awaits at Exit H, sir,” the commander informed him with no hesitation left. Even allowing himself a trace of pride.

Piett sighed in exasperation. Blast peaceful Core Worlds garrisons, blast the shinies who manned them; they should be put through the meat grinder of the Outer Rim more often.

He levelled a cold, admiral-like look on Haidar. “I will comm you later, Captain. Do not even think of contacting me first.”

Captain Sarkli of the Imperial Naval Intelligence Agency instantly recomposed himself on attention. His face was serious. “Yessah.” Then he pursed his lips, and hissed, “Wouldnae dream of it.”

Piett let the despondent use of accent slide. “Commander, if you don’t mind,” he said a lot more casually than he actually meant, “lead the way.”

“Yessir.”

The stormtroopers guided him to the gate and to the speeder parked outside the spaceport. They mounted speeder bikes, he climbed into the closed vehicle. It was a sleek model, sporty in design, but built with blast-proof materials. Or so he hoped. That was how they did escort missions on Axxila; it had saved a minister’s life from an assassination attempt once. The stormtroopers had tougher luck.

The window, surely as blast-proof as the rest of the speeder, nevertheless looked thin compared to space-worthy transparisteel. It tinted Kuat City in a faintly darker shade, that made the colours of trees—so damn many trees!—, painted houses, shop signs and hovertram cars seem more intense, rather than dull them.

Everything was so clean and orderly, including the speeders at the traffic lights, that Piett had a hard time believing it was an actual city. The civilians all around were Humans. He found himself peering through the window and keeping his eyes peeled for non-Human passers-by. He thought he’d spotted a Twi’lek at some point, but maybe it was just a Human man with a funny hat; the speeder moved too fast to get a clear view.

And to find Haidar here, of all places… To find a chunk of Axxilan garbage here ruining the most presentable face of the Core…

_Did you tell me mum?_

Piett replayed the conversation in his mind. He realised he had not answered that question; if Haidar was any good at his NavIntel job, he would have noticed it.

He grit his teeth. Tonight, he was going to call Attica. He’d been too busy until now. Hard to imagine she cared much about his career advancements, anyway. And, well, had Haidar ever checked on her during all these years? _Hav ye told yer mum, pedunkee?_

Attica had never mentioned hearing from her son at any time, after Haidar had left home when he was fifteen standard years old. This could mean two things: one, Haidar had never sought her out (which Piett had always assumed was the case); two, Attica had heard from her son but had not told her brother.

Despite the warm air inside the speeder, Piett’s skin crawled. “Driver, is it autumn or winter in this hemisphere?”

“Spring, sir. The warmest Kuat City has had in ten standard years, sir. If you are cold, I could crank up the heating.”

“Never mind.” Piett leaned back on the rear seat, pulled a datapad out of the bag and pretended to read it. His brain, though, refused to be distracted. It was still screaming _why did she do it, how could she do it without telling him, good stars, what if this meant she had forgiven Haidar’s father_ by the time the speeder and escort dumped their passenger in front of a six-storey palace, with a marble façade so immaculate it seemed unnatural, and flowery plants jutting out of every balcony.

Piett hesitantly stepped past the gate, and walked a whole lap around the perimeter of the courtyard before locating the doorway to the stairs and the lifts. To calm himself, he read all the restaurant ads on the mirror display during the lift ride. There wasn’t a nanosecond of waiting, however, when he rang the doorbell to Veers’ apartment instead of trying the nearby door to his own first.

Muffled footsteps thumped nearer and nearer, then the door slid open.

Veers had shed more of clothing since his last comm to Piett; he stood in the nude except for a white towel wrapped around his waist, that didn’t even reach his knees. The wet hair and smell of scented soap suggested a fresh shower. He wasn’t smiling, though. For whatever damn reason, that added a fuelling of fear to Piett’s heartbeat.

“Good day, General,” he said in a flat, suddenly dry-throated voice. “If I’m bothering you now, I could knock again later.”

Veers moved out of the doorway to let him in. The door slid closed and locked behind Piett. Two huge hands clamped themselves over the small of his back; lips brushed his left cheek, traced his ear, nibbled at the bend of his neck that the tunic collar didn’t cover. Fear and cold melted away in a warm, tickling shiver down his spine.

“Thank you for coming,” Veers whispered, then pressed his mouth to Piett’s and his tongue in.

 _Bit early to talk about coming_. Piett had to laugh into the kiss. His free hand reciprocated the hold on Veers’ waist, first pawing the Hoth scar, then sliding down to undo the knot that held the towel up; one less layer of fabric between them. It was only fair he got rid of the documents bag next. He pulled gently away from the kiss. With visible difficulty, Veers blinked his eyes half-open. It made Piett want to start kissing him again, but he restrained himself and stepped aside. “Let me make myself comfortable first.”

He looked around the room in search of a place to drop the bag. What dropped instead was his jaw. “Did… did they take us for Republic senators?”

“What?”

With his free hand, Piett gestured at the apartment. He’d once thought his quarters on the _Executor_ were luxurious and, most of all, huge; well, this living room alone must be spacious enough to contain the admiral’s quarters and more. The far end of the room was a glass door facing a terrace, incandescent with sunlight and green with plants. Piett tapped his boots on the parquet floor; it must be real wood, it smelled of a living thing.

“Mind the step,” Veers told him as he stubbed his toe against that very step, some ten centimetres of curvy wood that separated the living room from a vestibule so big you could have crammed an ISD-standard ‘fresher in there. Two tables, a brand new comm console and holoprojector with screen attached, high-definition holos of ancient starships on every available square meter of wall, a refrigerator with a bottle in a bowl of ice resting unopened atop it, a white sofa and… Piett counted five between chairs and armchairs at a glance.

Everything looked new, and the same scent that had stuck to Veers’ fresh-off-the-shower skin permeated the air. It was a bit intoxicating and prickled at his nostrils. Pray the stars he wasn’t allergic to anything in this planet’s atmosphere—or that it wasn’t Kuat that was allergic to him, to Outer Rim trash.

Piett put down the bag on the table, checked his comlink one last time and switched it off. “Where would you like me to sit?”

“Take the couch.”

As Piett complied, without holding back a pleased sigh at the soft pillows he landed on, he noticed Veers had picked up the towel and protected his last bit of decency again. Piett clucked his teeth. “Don’t tell me you’re getting dressed!”

A corner of Veers’ mouth curled up, but he didn’t look him in the face. He walked up to the sofa and sat down on it. Not within optimal touching distance. That was worryingly unlike him, and Piett frowned. “I take it we are going to have a serious conversation first, sex later?”

“I’m such a disappointment, I know.”

“Bollocks. So, you mentioned your boy—”

“He isn’t a boy anymore.” Veers’ expression dimmed to a blinking, gaze-evading something, undecided between anger and sadness. “It seems like I keep forgetting.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened, or is it too personal?”

Veers ran a hand through his hair. It looked darker now that it was wet, more sandy than silver. “Did you hear about the bombing at the spaceport today? You must have. The whole place is under the most poorly handled lockdown I’ve ever seen in twenty years of career.”

“Shit.” Haidar. _The deserters I was arrestin’, who blew their arses ta bloody bits_. A nasty, muddy feeling he couldn’t name bubbled up in his stomach. He got on his feet and fetched the bottle from the ice bowl. “I think we’re going to need a sip.”

“Maybe later,” Veers mumbled. Still avoiding his eyes. “Well, I know what you’re thinking—no, Zev wasn’t hurt in the explosion. But he was sick, so they took him to the spaceport medbay, and I thought he… he…”

Piett froze where he stood, gripping the neck of the bottle. _Please, don’t start crying_.

Cupping both hands over his face, Veers bent over and sneezed thrice in a short-interval row, rocking so hard the sofa shook.

 _Joy_ , thought Piett after the first sneeze. _Money_ , after the second. _Go see a sawbones_ , after the third. His grandmother used to say that all aloud, but Veers sure was not in the mood to learn useless tidbits of Axxilan folk culture.

“I already hate this shore leave,” Veers muttered, pinching his nose shut.

Piett put down the bottle, located a tissue box—at the touch, it felt like the same Kashyyyk wood used for some parts of the furniture in his quarters on the Lady—and tossed it at Veers. “Dry your hair. Then we can make this atrocious shore leave better.” At the puzzled look he got over a tissue, he grinned. “Sofa or bedroom, dear?” One once-over to the other man’s body, and he realised he was also _meaning_ the grin.

“Sofa.” Veers whipped the towel off his waist and started rubbing his head with it.

They’d had plenty of chances to get used to seeing each other starkers, but every damn time made Piett’s breath catch like the very first.  He sat down with his legs spread wide to accommodate the growing hard-on, but didn’t take any of his clothes off yet; not even the gloves.

“I wouldn’t want you to feel intimidated once you see the bed,” Veers continued. It was so easy to take his mind off sadness, it was endearing. Piett wondered if he had been the same with the prostitutes on Axxila; if they had taken genuine pride in making him forget, for a few hours, himself and what his work forced him to witness and do; if there was anything beyond the generous tipping he always handed out, and the gratitude they owed him for arresting their traffickers.

Probably no, there wasn’t. _Over there nobody likes greybacks, no matter the good they do. No matter if doing that good costs them their life—or worse than their life; think of Captain Fraine—_

“Lost in thought, Firmus?”

He shook his head, back to Kuat and the naked general in front of him. Veers had discarded the towel and was combing his hair with one hand, in fact dishevelling it even more; far be it from Piett to complain about it, for the gesture bared the whole left side of his torso: muscles, faded scar lines, that lone small mole just above his hip. _Blasted show-off_. Piett felt hot and too damn clothed; his heart beat faster but he forced himself not to start panting already.

Veers regarded him with a slit-eyed, blush-faced satisfaction. “Do I have to leave that uniform on you?”

 _Rip it off me_. On another occasion, Piett was sure he would have told him exactly that. He moved over and sat astride Veers’ lap, looping his arms around that strong fine pair of shoulders. His right hand immediately found its gripping point on the old pockmarked shrapnel scar there.

Veers laughed quietly, absent-mindedly, as his swelling lower deck artillery met hot synthwool. His hands grabbed Piett’s thighs—not quite as hard yet as to leave bruises, but they would get there. Stars, yes they would.

He pressed his chest to Veers’, pulled his head back and kissed him hard along his neck, pausing to smile to himself the instant he heard a moan—

A comlink beeped somewhere across the room.

The moan ended in, “…oh, fucking nine hells!”


	4. Chapter 4

Annice Kijé stared at the general’s big frame marching off up the footpath. _No. No no no no. Don’t go_.

Of course she knew all too well that neither gawking nor begging in silence were of any use to make someone notice her, and stay with her.

In a few long strides, Veers disappeared into a road turn that circled around a flower-dotted hillock. Kijé fixed her stare on the flowers; some were red and others purple, all quivering in the breeze, so innocuous and pretty they could have been a subject for the cheap watercolour paintings that street artists sold to tourists in every city on Naboo. She stared at the flowers until the fluttering inside her skull and at the mouth of her stomach, threatening an outburst of tears, died down like a summer storm.

She leaned back on the bench; an officer and a civilian woman happened to be strolling down the path, arm in arm, the civilian whispering to the military woman’s ear something the latter chuckled at. They didn’t look at Kijé—hard to imagine they wanted to pay attention to anything but each other, if they had just been reunited after a long tour of duty—but their presence made her sit composed and choke off a sigh.

To avoid staring at them, and whatever unwanted emotion that spectacle of love might light up in her stupid brain, Kijé looked up to the orbital ring in the pale blue sky. _Archaeological and archival evidence, in addition to literary and artistic references, point to standard year 1200 BE as the most probable date of construction for the Kuat orbital facilities. A planet-encircling ring, however, was not completed until 1000-900 BE, a testament to the era of economic boom that followed the end of the Sith Wars_. Kijé squinted into the sunlight; it was acceptable to smile to herself, because passers-by would assume she was enjoying the warmth. Honestly, certain passages in _The Bar’leth Concise History of the Old Republic_ made her feel warmer inside than natural light or a partner’s arms.

The boarding house where she’d been assigned a flat for the duration of this shore leave had a very limited selection of downloadable books: action novels from an ISB-endorsed series, and stuff about naval engineering. The Kuat City Municipal Library, however, lay midway between here and the boarding house.

It had been so long since Kijé had last read a history book. She missed it. The nostalgia was sweet, devoid of guilt; she had been busier than a queen’s hairdresser since joining the military, so she hadn’t time for leisure reading of any sort.

She drank up the flask Veers had left her, and stuffed it into a hoodie pocket where it didn’t bulge embarrassingly as she walked. The nearest park gate was a three-meters tall lattice (the informative holotag proudly noted it was cast from scrap ore of the shipyards), on which plants in bloom had been let creep up. Nice, but the garden of the Royal Palace on Theed was better.

As soon as her feet stepped on a concrete sidewalk rather than grass and earth, she froze in the vine leaves’ shade. Amid the pedestrian traffic, she was the only person wearing a track suit.

She took in a deep breath that smelled of flowers, and conjured up General Veers behind her. _Don’t be daft, sunshine. Yours is an Imperial uniform_. She looked down at the Imperial roundel printed on the front of her hoodie, and nodded.

With the lone minor inconvenience of a heart-jump when she couldn’t locate the name holotag of the street she needed to turn right into at a crossroad—the thing must be malfunctioning and the old stone-carved tag was hidden behind a treetop—the walk to the library was uneventful. The library itself, with its garden at the front and columned portico, was love at first sight. As everyone with a smattering of Core Worlds art history should know, a Naboo architect had designed it. The closer Kijé got to it, the more details she noticed that reminded her of home. The floral motifs in the bas-reliefs had the shape of Naboo plants, of the flowers Kijé’s stepmother grew on their terrace until, in the words of Kijé’s mother, it resembled more a jungle than a proper house.

But past the shade of the portico, jarringly modern sliding doors with all sorts of blinking detectors belied the distance from that cosy home.

Small wonder, thought Kijé as her retina and fingertips were scanned, that architect had taken up sniffing spice until it killed her.

The hall was twice as large and tall as the portico, and devoid of life; under the shaded portico, there had been people strolling. Inside the hall, at the far end towards a side entrance, the only Human presence were two staff people chatting between each other.

As if out of sheer happiness to see one visitor, a librarian droid sped on its padded, wheeled feet towards Kijé. “Good day and glory to the Emperor, Lieutenant Kijé. May I have the pleasure of assisting you?” The droid had a feminine voice, nasal and old-sounding. Like if they had used a woman in her standard fifties as basis for the vocabulator. Maybe it was a deliberate move to make visitors feel welcomed by a motherly, reassuring figure, but the underlying view of a library as something old, where old people belonged, saddened Kijé. Her Library and Archival Studies professor always railed so much about it...

“Yes, please,” Kijé leapt out of the thinking. Having to address a droid rather than a flesh-and-blood librarian made it a lot easier. “Verify that I have credentials for a loan.”

A turning wheel icon appeared on the tap screen on the droid’s chest. Within seconds it was replaced by a green light. “You have Level Aurek-6 COMPNOR credentials, Lieutenant. Your unrestricted access amounts to one hundred percent of the records held in this library.”

“Good. I would like to borrow a copy of _The Bar’Leth Concise History of the Old Republic_.”

A dozen available editions of the book, in holodisc, audiobook, print-on-demand and even hardback copy, showed up on the screen. Kijé couldn’t repress a grin, and why should she? This place was home in a way her quarters on the _Executor_ could never be. A piece of home on foreign soil, anyway.

She tapped on an audiobook edition; maybe listening to the book rather than reading it in silence would feel a bit like listening to a university lecture. Of course she didn’t wish to go back there. _Of course I don’t_. Anger roiled her stomach again like when she had been arguing with Zev, that asshole. _I made up my mind. I am needed in Death Squadron and I am making a difference now_. It just didn’t hurt to indulge in some harmless nostalgia during a shore leave. Really, it was nothing deeper than this. Harmless.

“Would you like to hear a sample, Lieutenant?” asked the librarian droid, handing out a pair of earbuds with a retractable arm.

“Sure!” Kijé slipped on the earbuds and waited for the sample record to begin playing. She knew such samples were chosen through a randomiser, to prevent students from reading up the bits they were interested in without taking the trouble to borrow the book; there would be no point asking the droid for a sample that contained the search key ‘Naboo’. All she could do was hope the randomiser chose an excerpt about Naboo history.

“ _A string of military setbacks along the Hydian Way_ ,” a male voice blared into her ears, “ _forced the remnants of the Mandalorian fleet to carve out a new hyperspace route, connecting the Salin Corridor to the Celanon Spur; it was in this era that the Phindar system was discovered and first colonised. Mandalorian chronicler Bede Wren claims the planet was uninhabited, but archaeological excavations performed under the rule of Duchess Satine Kryze proved that—_ ”

The record stopped so abruptly that Kijé tore the earbuds off her ears. Dammit, had she done something bad? Yet she hadn’t touched anything...

A big red flag icon popped up on the tap screen along with a text window: _This record has been flagged as inappropriate and reported_.

The droid amped up her grandmotherly mode. “Oh dear, that is scandalous! I deeply apologise, Lieutenant; the Kuat City Municipal Library strove to expunge all undesirable material from its collection, but sometimes glitches happen. We assure you this accident shall not repeat.”

“What is the issue, exactly?”

The droid tilted her head; the massive photoreceptors, built for magnifying small print and detecting micro-damage to paper and flimsiplast, lent her a funny look of confusion. Kijé felt a sickening wave of second-hand embarrassment on behalf of the droid. _Double dammit, Annice, you’re pathetic_.

“This record was added to our collections,” the droid explained ruefully, “before the Kuat Ruling Council issued Directive 914-LF3 on the preservation of Human cultural achievements, therefore it does not meet the content standards for being available to the public of this library. Specifically, it employs the narrating voice of Deebo Chak—a Rodian actor.”

Kijé blinked in surprise and recognition. The guy had starred in a holodrama that had been making the rounds on Naboo HoloNet channels she was a kid. Senator Onaconda Farr had sponsored its production, and Senator Farr had been a friend of Queen Amidala; every friend of Queen Amidala was a friend of all Naboo.

Interpreting her silence as something else, the droid went on, “In addition to that, the Imperial governor of Rodia reported that his role as ‘the Soldier’ in the famous holodrama _The Trickery of Vosdia Nooma_ has been an inspiration for pro-Rebel youth groups. The Coalition for Progress has banned Chak from working in the performing arts field until after he completes a period of political re-education.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. It’s... shocking, really.”

The droid nodded. Kijé feared her head could roll off that thin polished neck, like the heads of old battle droids that were used to scare off birds in the fields sometimes fell to the ground in heavy wind. “As the Head Librarian said,” the droid’s voice fell to a mechanical murmur, “the worst kind of treason is the one that books perpetrate.”

Kijé could only nod back. The sudden silence hung as heavy as the smell of slickweed smoke after a students’ party. It fell upon her to break it. Kijé tried to imagine the general at her side: _Come on, sunshine, hurry up and do it_.

But the droid beat her to that. “May I suggest borrowing a holodisc or a printed copy instead, ma’am?”

Kijé’s usual, most logical reaction would have been relief at not having had to act herself. Instead, she felt peeved, as if the librarian droid with the grandmotherly voice had robbed her of a chance that was hers, and hers alone. “Yes, please,” her voice betrayed none of the annoyance. “Printed copy will be fine.” There was something soothing about holding a printed book, turning its pages, feeling the weight, smelling the paper or the flimsi. And she damn well needed some soothing now.

“Would you like a print-on-demand copy that will self-erase once your lease is over, or an edition in book format?”

“Book, please. May I go pick it up myself? I’d like to take a look at the place, too.”

“A wise choice, Lieutenant. The Kuat City Municipal Library is an artistic treasure in and of itself.” A book record tab became highlighted on the tap screen. “This is the collocation of our newest copy available for lease.”

Kijé leaned over and read it over a couple times. She thanked the library droid and headed into the library, whispering the collocation code under her breath all along.

When she had to pass by the two staff people at the mouth of the corridor, she shut up completely. If she didn’t look at them, they wouldn’t look at her—but they did look. She felt their eyes on her. Dammit. Damn this ugly track suit. Damn that Zev arsehole and the way _he_ had watched her. Like if the only thing he’d seen had been a pretty piece of female meat as long as they’d been agreeable to each other; then a nuisance the instant she’d dared talk back. It reminded her of the way elderly Humans in Theed got pissy at Gungans.

That awful, dehumanising sensation of judgment never happened with General Veers, with Captain Visdei, with droids or with Bethan, even less so with cameras and recording devices in front of which she had an interview script to perform.

The corridor was lined with holobusts of Human writers (including Kijé’s favourite children’s books author, which made her smile). It led to the main reading room: a three-storey square space a hundred meters wide, with sterile white and soft yellowish wood as its dominant colours, lit from above through a skylight roof and crammed with empty desks. Kijé had never seen a library so empty before. Granted, the Theed University libraries had to be, by their own nature, uncannily bustling with traffic; at any rate, many students would never set foot in a library again after the need to study for exams was gone. But this commonsense consideration didn’t erase the present weirdness.

She skulked along the bookshelves, painted in the same overly clean white as the terraces and escalators. According to the tags, the entire series of Bar’Leth Concise Histories must be one floor down. The escalator activated as soon as she stepped down the first rung; it moved smoothly, with a quiet humming noise that Kijé was unsure whether to find creepy or comforting.

She wanted to walk down while the escalator was moving and get off as quickly as possible, so that the noise would stop. But that would mean stepping on the immaculate rungs, leaving footprints, dirtying the place.

Dammit. Kijé didn’t dare sighing in irritation, but the feeling was all there. What did people find relaxing about shore leaves, anyway? All the carefully crafted routine of shipboard life went to pot; there was nothing relaxing about that. It was stressful and scary. She couldn’t even drop by Major Sauris and ask if an increased dosage of meds might be in order.

At least it was calming to behold the sight of neatly arranged books in their shelves lining the wall, allowing the eye to linger on them as the escalator rolled down.

The moment some invisible sensor detected Kijé’s presence at the bottom of the escalator, the machine braked to a gentle stop. She stepped down, tiptoed to the bookshelves to check the tags—and stared blankly in utter lack of recognition. She had let the collocation code slip off her mind. Double dammit.

Thank Shiraya, there was another librarian droid rolling over to her. This one had an elderly female voice, too, albeit different from the one in the lobby, “Good day and glory to the Emperor—”

A shrill beeping noise echoed across the library. Kijé jumped, hit the back of her right foot against the edge of an escalator rung and grabbed onto the railing, out of breath with fright and lancing pain that felt like it was pouring into her shoe in liquid form. What if she was bleeding?

The noise continued. It wasn’t _loud_ , it was _close_.

“Ma’am,” said the droid, “I must remind you the Kuat City Municipal Library rules of behaviour require all comlinks to be either switched off or set to silent mode during your stay in the reading room. That is also common courtesy in several galactic cultures.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Kijé mumbled as she hobbled back up the escalator. Step by step, the pain receded. The comlink kept beeping, and she fished it out of her pocket, clamping it between her palms in a vain attempt to smother the noise.

Head low, without one last glance at the bookshelves, she darted down the corridor. Midway through it, she staggered to a halt with her back to the wall and answered the comm, “Li... Lieutenant Kijé... Operating number—”

“I _know_ it’s _you_ , Kijé!” growled Chief Kastle. “Why did it take you so long? Was someone giving you oral?”

The two staffers at the end of the corridor were gone, mercifully. But there were cameras, and Kijé was sure they had microphones. “Chief, please, I’m in a public space—”

“We’ve wasted enough time. Say, are you still buddying with General Veers?”

“Sir, this really isn’t a wording he would approve—”

“That’s a yes, then. Good. Good job, Kijé. Now listen up: one of my contacts in NavIntel just tipped me off to the general’s son being in Kuat City. He’s one of their boys, you know.” Kastle paused for a moment. “Can you see where I’m headed with this, Kijé?”

She imagined reading a HoloNet headline. “Hero of Hoth and son. The moving reunion.”

“Hmpf. We’ll have to think of a better title. So, since you’ve caught up already, drop whatever you’re doing, tell your girlfriend you’ll have time for cuddling later, find Veers Senior and Veers Junior, and make it a good show. There will be more of that later on, I’m sure; the Kuati will jump on the bandwagon like mynocks on a power cable. Official ceremonies and all that. But the very first encounter should be something... intimate. Yes, that’s the word. Intimate. Father, son, emotional... am I clear?”

“Yes sir—but... wait, I don’t know where I can find the general’s son!”

Across the parsecs between Kuat and Coruscant, she could picture Kastle mashing a cigarette in the ashtray and rolling his eyes. “I have sent all the relevant data to your inbox. I know you’re supposed to slack off during a shore leave, but please check that fracking thing from time to time, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyway, if you’re dying so much to know, the boy’s name is...” She feared the connection had flickered off, but Kastle spoke again in a few seconds, “Lieutenant Zevulon Veers, operating number NI-31017. My contact says he’s lodged at a civilian homestead in...” Another pause.

“E-excuse me, sir, but... Zevulon, you said?”

“Yes, so what? It was the name of a saint in an old Denoni religion, or something like that.”

“A young man around my age, red hair, pencil moustache, a lot of acne?”

“I suppose the general keeps a holo of him in plain sight somewhere, huh. Well, remember to edit that acne out of the footage.”

“No, I... yes, sir.”

“Great! I knew I could count on you, Lieutenant! I expect the material by tomorrow, nineteen hour IST. It’s the perfect stuff for the evening main HoloNet News edition. Now get to work.” Kastle cut the comm.

Kijé gazed into the holographic eyes of her beloved Naboo fairytales writer; the guy appeared amiable and smiling in the pictures that decorated the author’s bio page at the end of his books. This bust, instead, had a stern expression; under the thick moustache his lips were shut tight, as if he wanted to say something but was forbidden to. Kijé nodded at the bust in aggravated camaraderie, and kriff it if whoever manned the surveillance cameras thought she seemed crazy.

_Zev, that’s it!_

_Short for Zevulon? A while ago, it used to be a fairly common name on Denon_.

Then the general had acted weird, after she had given him the asshole’s physical description. Had he recognised his son in it? On the topic of physical, she tried to superimpose Zev’s facial features and Veers’; it came easy now that she was so used to working with video editing softwares. There was a resemblance, yes, now that she thought about it... but it could also be her brain building it to fit the theory.

 _Come on, Annice. Get to work. Leave on your own before they kick you out of here for disturbing the peace_.

If anything, her foot didn’t hurt anymore; a glance at her trousers confirmed that there had been no wound and no blood loss. She made her way back to the lobby, where the same librarian droid came to greet her. “Lieutenant, the library database computer claims you have not picked up the book. Have you perhaps changed your mind?”

“Oh, nothing, just got a work call.”

The droid rolled after her, close enough that Kijé was forced to slow to a halt lest she stubbed her toe against those silent wheels. “We have a wide list of recommended entertaining readings, approved by High Command, available for instant download on disposable datapads, if it can be of interest.”

“Well—actually, do you have a HoloNet terminal? I... I need to check my inbox now.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the droid did her best to sound cheerful, and yet the vocabulator managed to convey a hint of desolation. “Please follow me.” She rolled towards a computer room one floor up, guiding Kijé, at not even half her previous speed.

Guilt started laying brick after brick inside Kijé’s throat. It was a relief when the librarian droid left her alone at the terminal, on the grounds of Imperial security protocol, otherwise that guilt would have made her borrow the entire recommended list of action novels about ISB operatives saving the galaxy and their scantily clad love interests.

Her hands were cold with sweat, she realised while typing in the access credentials; it took two attempts before she could press her thumb on the scanning pad still enough for the system to recognise the fingerprint.

Kastle’s message lay there at the top of the unread mail column, second only to a message whose subject line read _Security Alert—Kuat City Imperial Spaceport_. To the ninth hell with that for now; she had nothing to do with the spaceport. Kijé took a deep breath, held it, swiped Kastle’s message open, and released it in a huffing burst.

She could tell it was _him_ just by the thumbnail of the attached image. A bust-up portrait in uniform, of the kind they used for military personnel IDs. A tap on the screen, and here he was, without any chance left for doubt: Lieutenant Zevulon Veers, Prefsbelt graduate (with a lower-side-of-average score; Kijé had seen General Veers’ graduation scores and the difference was striking), Coalition for Progress Sector Monitoring analyst, had served on Manaan and Commenor, mentioned for good behaviour by his CO Commander Ivo Laibach, currently waiting for a reassignment.

Kijé breathed deeply in and out again a few times, then scrolled to the personal data section.

Born on Denon, standard year 1 of the Imperial Era. To Maximilian Veers and Eliana Veers.

This was the first time she learned the name of the general’s late wife.

In the picture, with his hair pulled back under the cap, he bore a much more evident resemblance to the general. Different colours, softer facial features, a shorter nose and that acne dotting his cheeks, but the big mouth and the frown were the same. Fiercer, even. It was almost a relief that people in the SecMonit branch weren’t tasked with interrogation, although they were trained for it; a glare like that, paired up with an IT-O, would have made a droideka cower in fear.

And yes, he was that asshole at the park. Yes, she had called him an asshole in the presence of his father. Surely now the general must be pissed at her. That must be why he had left so quickly after he’d realised she had been trash-talking his son. _Good job fudging things up once again when they were going pretty well, Annice_.

She planted her elbows on the desk, on each side of the HoloNet terminal, and buried her face into her disgustingly sweaty hands for several seconds.

“Lieutenant,” the librarian droid asked at last, “are you feeling unwell? If that is unfortunately the case, the library has a first aid post and a direct line of communication with the nearest hospital.”

“It’s nothing a medidroid can fix.” Kijé logged out of her inbox and switched off the terminal, turning a shock-deafened ear to the librarian’s prattling in defence of her healthcare fellow clankers.

She dragged her sorry, ill-dressed self back under the outer portico of the library, as alone as only a sentient without friends and without books could be, and sagged to sit on the corner of a column base. The Naboo-style architecture showed itself for what it was: a fake, a poor imitation, so insufferably far from home it was an insult to transplant them here, on this planet of bolt-brains that better keep their ugly-ass orbital ring...

 _Focus, Annice. You have work to do. Breathe in. Out_. One slow breath at a time, the anger and the chokehold of incipient crying loosened, leaving weariness in their wake. Not the good, purely physical fatigue after exercising, but the tiredness of the mind that beats up itself for nothing, over its own ghosts. At least, she imagined that being beaten up, as the loser of the fight, must feel more or less like this.

But there was work to do. And to do that work, she needed to contact General Veers. She unzipped the hoodie pocket and pulled out the comlink.

Maybe he wasn’t angry at all...? No, better not to nurture hopes. She could just be brave and learn immediately if now he hated her or not. Of course he did. Who would ever pick her over his own son, even if that son was an asshole?

Kijé imagined the things the general might call her as soon as he picked up the call, and in the meantime her fingers composed his number on the comlink.

It started beeping. She stopped breathing.

 _Click_. “Veers here. Who in the nine hells is that?”

Shit, shit, shit, he was angry. Kijé let out a strangled whimper that ended in ‘sorry’.

The general’s voice mellowed at once. “Ah, thank the stars it’s you, sunshine. Sorry for shouting, I was taking a nap.” He made a yawning sound. It must be all that military experience he had, but he sounded way too awake for someone just awoken and cranky about it. “Is everything all right with the lockdown?”

“What lockdown—I mean, I... I just got orders from Coruscant.”

“Orders? But you are on leave!”

She couldn’t stop her weak voice, once started, and she feebly talked over the general, “They want you and your son to appear together in a propaganda reel.”

Silence fell at the other end of the comm. Eleven seconds. Kijé counted them.

“No,” gasped the general at last.

Wait, was that _fear_?


	5. Chapter 5

“You shouldn’t walk home with your leg in that state, sir,” the medidroid warned him. The tone was that of a concerned, if resigned, parent.

Zev laughed. As usual, his laughter was choke-full of sarcasm, ugly and grating to his own ears. “My home is on Denon. I couldn’t walk there even if I wanted.”

The medidroid threw up his thin mechanical arms. “With all due respect, sir, you Humans are one of the most erratic life forms in the galaxy. You’d think a general’s son could pull enough rank to get a free ride...”

Focusing on the tug-and-pull task of stuffing his bandaged foot inside the boot, Zev bit back a reply. While pretending to check that the contents of his suitcase were all right, he slipped the suicide pill inside it, safe and invisible.

To avoid raising suspicions, like every good Imperial officer on shore leave he had booked a billet well before debarkation; however, he couldn’t bring himself to file a request for a bunk in a boarding house. He’d had enough barrack-rooms for a lifetime. Instead, he’d chosen to be billeted in a civilian house. One at the outskirts of Kuat City, far from the fashionable Human-only centre. The requests there were low because most of the landlords were non-Humans. His were an old Chagrian married couple by the name of Mazepa; he had no idea if the pronunciation in Basic was correct, but he doubted it.

Admittedly, it had taken Zev more searching than he’d expected to get that billet; he could not comprehend why so many other Imperials of all ranks below captain tolerated being housed and fed by ‘alien scum’. Granted, he knew from his own wallet that an officer’s pay was not princely, and Kuat City was an expensive place. But surely the first and foremost reason was the desire to colonise, oppress and humiliate. It couldn’t be any other way.

The bandage was bothersome at the start; it stiffened his ankle inside the boot, and he walked with a visible limp. Pray to the Three Goddesses nobody mistook him for a war hero, wounded in the line of duty. One step after another, and he forgot about it. The route was easy and straightforward, but long, and his mind wandered faster than his body.

Vel-Blast-‘em-All, of all people. He remembered sitting in his far corner of the mess hall, and her voice booming across the place when, in the course of a truth-or-dare game, she had yelled, “I want Lord Vader’s dick!” He remembered mashing his chow in the plate and wishing a carpet bombing would kill off everyone.

How could the Rebellion want a person like Vel?

He had no idea who the other conspirators were. Nor was he going to have any, thanks to that blood-splattered NavIntel arsehole.

Thinking about Captain Sarkli made his heart shrink and pound like a neutron star, and his eyes miss checking the traffic light. A screech of brakes yanked him back to reality. His gaze met that of a middle-aged Human woman in a white uniform, driving a white hovervan with _KUAT CITY MAIL DELIVERY_ painted in yellow on the flanks. “You’re hobbling, kiddo,” she said.

_Shit, can you all stop being concerned for my health?_

“Hop on. I can give you a lift for free.”

He wanted to refuse, but now that his attention was back to his physical body, his foot burned afresh. Besides, to his own surprise, he was too tired to argue. The same fatigue he’d felt after speaking to his father the day of graduation.

So he climbed onto the seat next to the driver, resting the suitcase on his knees and stretching his injured lower leg under the dashboard. He told the driver the address. “If it’s not on your way, you don’t have to—”

“It _is_ on my way now, son,” the woman said with a smile, starting the van again.

 _Son_. Zev cringed.

“You see, I was in the Republic Judicials a while ago, during the Wars,” the woman prattled, “and a bit of liking for boys in uniform rubbed onto me and never washed off.”

It was a simple matter of nodding and pretending to listen. He was used to it. He only had to hold his breath, his tongue and his sense of justice once, when the driver honked at two Togrutas crossing the street and then grunted, “Blasted tail-heads.”

On the plus side, the presence of the Togrutas meant they were out of the Humans-only zone.

“Don’t know about you, son, but I’ve always found them gross. Tail-heads, I mean. Surgery works magic these days; can’t they just have those things removed?”

Zev shut his eyes, feigning sleep. It worked: the driver stopped talking. Not long after, the hovervan pulled to a halt at the side of the street, and a hand gently tapped his shoulder. “That’s the place, son.”

 _I hope you never have any sons. And if you do, that they run off to marry a Twi’lek stripper_. Zev pretended to yawn, and unbuckled the seatbelt. “The space lag is killing me, I swear.”

The woman laughed. “Well, just don’t let the Rebels do that, okay? The Empire needs nice boys like you.”

 _Yes, we’re so full of enthusiasm at the prospect of becoming blaster fodder,  brainwashed murderers, or even better, both things_. “Do you have anything to deliver in this apartment building? I could take it for you, as thanks.”

“You’re a true sweetheart, you know that?” The smile she gave him was so shiny-eyed and trustful he almost couldn’t believe this same woman was such speciesist trash. “But no worries, we don’t do deliveries in this neighbourhood.”

“It’s because they’re non-Humans, isn’t it?” Damn it, but it was liberating to ask that up-front.

As dumb as a model Imperial subject, the woman did not catch the polemic undertone. “Nailed it. Company rules, you know.”

“Enforced by the Imperial command, I suppose?”

“Oh no, not at all.” She jabbed a thumb at her uniformed breast. “We’re not affiliated with the military, though if it’s the uniform that gave you this impression, well, thank you, son! I don’t get many nice compliments anymore—”

An instrument started beeping on the hovervan dashboard. The woman stopped smiling. “Sorry, got to run. Sleep well and have a great shore leave, bye!”

Standing on the sidewalk with most of his weight on the healthy leg, Zev watched the hovervan speed away and imagined it crashing and burning. It turned a corner and disappeared undamaged, because the galaxy was just unfair like that.

Now that his eyes were on an empty street, he noticed the cracks in the cobblestones, the lack of green, the brick houses unpainted and unadorned save for a gravball team flag hanging limp from a balcony. Across the street, through the shop window he could see the customers of a minimarket queuing at the counter; none of them was Human, but there was a Duros child holding a man’s hand and both were smiling at each other. That made Zev look away at once.

In its might, the Imperial Navy billeting system had given him the passcode for the gate lock of the apartment building. The device screwed to the door jamb was new, but there were dents on the wall that belied several picking attempts. The gate opened at the first try, letting Zev in to a carpeted vestibule that smelled of humidity and unclean carpet.

Fourth floor, no lift.

He sighed, slung the suitcase over his shoulder, and began a long, hopping ascent holding onto the handrail with his free hand; the glove soon turned white with what Zev assumed was plaster dust, and sticky with what was probably paint dramatically showing its cheapness. The wooden rungs under the carpet thudded hollow under his boots. His rational mind doubted there was any collapsing hazard, but the hair on the back of his neck stood all the same.

Fourth floor, there it was. Only one chipped-wooden door faced him on the gallery; it looked flimsy, but held the weight of a triple lock, so modern it looked ridiculous on that old door. Zev had the passcode for it, too, but he rang the bell instead.

Nothing happened for several seconds. His thumb brushed the button again, ready to push. A scurrying noise came from somewhere underneath him and faded off; probably pests in the interspace between floors. His head swam and he had to prop himself up with an elbow to the doorway. He ought to be glad this was yet more proof of how bad an Imperial soldier he was, but shit, he had limits too.

He rang the bell a second time. He could hear it loud and shrill through the door. Now, after the chime, came voices. Little more than murmurs. One sounded masculine.

The footfall noise was faint, but amplified by the creaky floor. The locks clattered one after one, until the door could finally swing open to reveal a purple-skinned, wizened Chagrian lady in a polka-dot dress and slippers. “You must be Lieutenant Veers...?”

Zev straightened up and bowed his head. “ _Dobre maralta_.” The Chagri language sounded awkward on his native-Basic tongue; the vowels were all wrong. The old lady’s eyes went wide, no doubt with shock and outrage.

She clutched the points of her lethorns and turned towards the corridor. “Silas, did you hear that?”

“Yes, the doorbell,” answered a male voice from inside the flat.

“Not that! He speaks Chagri!”

“No, not quite, ma’am,” Zev said quietly, “I just looked up some words on the HoloNet—”

“The doorbell speaks Chagri?” asked the male voice.

“No! Lieutenant Veers!”

“Who?”

“Please, come in, come in.” The lady grabbed Zev’s arm and, with her free hand, slipped the suitcase off him with a surprising strength and quickness. “Oh, darling, do you really travel so light? My grocery shopping bags are a lot heavier. You soldiers must be used to making do with few comforts, it’s so admirable—”

“Petra, do we have visitors?” asked the man named Silas.

Petra led Zev along the corridor, so narrow that their shoulders bumped against each other’s and scraped against the wall, and into what must be the living room. It was half as wide as the bunkroom Zev shared with three other lieutenants during his last tour of duty, and thrice as crammed: a wooden table at the centre, chairs all around, the armchair on which the old man Silas was perched, an ancient-looking HoloNet terminal, trinkets and pots on every shelf. A holoposter of Grand Vizier Amedda occupied the only shelf-free square meter of the wall.

Silas squinted up at Zev, adjusting his glasses to magnify the newcomer’s face and absent-mindedly clucking his forked tongue. He had been interrupted while reading a datapad, whose font was big enough on the screen for Zev to read the words at a glance; he knew the novel—one of his bunkmates had proofread it for censorship purposes.

“Well, nice to meet you, Lieutenant Veers.” Silas held onto the armrests and lifted himself to his feet. The datapad and the homespun blanket covering his lap both slid to the floor. “Darn...”

Zev hobbled over to pick them up. This earned him several rounds of _what a good boy, such a gentleman_ , an offering of tea, an offer to take the armchair, and other such pleasantries he politely declined. Rather, he mentioned being very tired—which was all too true—and wishing to go to bed, which if Mrs Mazepa would be so kind...

“Please, darling, just Petra.” She had let go neither of his arm nor of his suitcase. She complimented his good manners, his accent, his looks, the shine of his boots, and only when Zev pointed out he was dying to take those well-polished boots off did she remember he wanted to go to bed.

Commander Laibach was a sack of banthacrap, but on one thing he had been right: _Interrogation subjects are like old folks, Lieutenant. Arm yourself with patience and get used to listening to a lot of babble_. The maxim was true even in reverse.

His bedroom was next to the front door. It consisted of a bed with a garishly colourful quilt thrown over the mattress, a wardrobe, a desk by the window, and a chair onto which Petra deposited his suitcase.

It was better than an Imperial detention block cell. Yet, this failed to improve Zev’s mood; the risk of finding himself jailed in the near future was still here, and would be his constant companion for a while. Maybe forever.

As soon as Petra gently shut the door behind her, he sighed and collapsed on his back onto the bed. It squeaked awfully, the mattress gave way under his weight, and the insect-repellent smell of the quilt made his nostrils itch. His injured foot itched, too. Without sitting up, he pulled off his boots, then his belt and gloves. They were all tossed to the floor. He clutched the rank badge on the front of his tunic, ready to tear it off. It deserved the same fate. His entire uniform belonged at the bottom of a trash compactor.

 _Calm down, Zevvie_. He imagined his mother whispering that to his ear. The trick didn’t work as well as it used to, but the rage fantasy faded to the background of his mind. He groped for the pillow and bunched it up under his head, closing his eyes. The little sleep he’d had at the spaceport medbay had been light and troubled; sleeping on throughout the duration of the war didn’t sound like a bad idea now.

Maybe he would wake up and the Empire would be gone, never existed at all, just a bad dream...

Something creaked and squeaked. Above him. Slow at first, then quicker and louder. Zev’s eyes shot open. The ceiling lamp was swinging. He could’ve sworn the ceiling itself was shaking.

“What the fuck _are_ the pests in this place?” He hauled himself up to sit. Then the moans began. Or, rather, became loud enough that he could hear them very, very clearly.

That fucking did it. He unpinned the rank badge off his tunic and hurled it to the ceiling. It bounced off to the wall and from there to the floor, leaving dents in the plaster. The moans and the creaks continued unperturbed.

A HoloNet newscaster’s voice joined in from the living room, “Top story of the day for the HoloNet News, Kuat system edition: twenty-five brand new Star Destroyers are scheduled for launch on Primeday this coming week. Kuat Drive Yards is proud of its role at the forefront of the Imperial war effort—”

So proud to be accomplices of oppression and tyranny, yes. A whole planet full of that pride, down to the oppressed people who lived on it.

Zev got up, went rifling through his suitcase, and armed himself with the portable music player, earbuds at maximum volume. Korriban Fest was a loud band, and he picked their loudest album in the player’s library.

 _Battle Hymn of the Republic_ was supposed to be the first song, but the player was on random track mode and the song that started shelling his ear canals was the _Vode An_ cover. Even in his ignorance of the language, Zev could tell the Mando’a pronunciation contained mistakes. But it didn’t matter. The gritty quetarra riffs, the pounding drums, the backing vocals that were practically angry yells... it was perfect. A song of lone dissidents. Calling to brothers that were all dead, in a broken and very likely drunk voice, was the only option left. Since this place wasn’t an Imperial base or warship, Zev felt a bit bolder than usual and mouthed the lyrics along—careful not to hum or sing the words. One could never be too careful.

The entire album went by. By the time of the last track, Zev’s ears hurt. The HoloNet terminal was still on in the other room; he could hear the voice of an actress rhetorically asking a stammering actor how she could keep loving him, after he had cheated on her with a string of other characters ‘and then cast his lot with the Rebellion’. The moaning and bed-creaking in the apartment above had ceased.

He tiptoed into the corridor; his foot was bothering him less now, and being stealthy was easy. Compared to sneaking out of Imperial dorms past lights-out, it was a piece of cake. Keeping his eyes on the living room threshold, he prowled to a closed door in the correct assumption it was the loo. When he was sure the flush noise had not alerted the old couple to his presence, he moved to the bathroom.

He quirked an eyebrow at the bathtub, big and deep enough for two Humans of his size to fit in, then he remembered that Chagrians were amphibians who grew their newborns in tubs. As a consequence, the wall by this one was lined with happy family pictures: limbless, sleeping tadpoles in the arms of younger, smiling Petra and Silas, taking turns in holding the babies from holo to holo. Zev tore his gaze away, washed his hands and his face, and retreated to his room.

The rest of his uniforms joined the pile on the floor. His rank badge, he noticed, had not broken upon impact; he considered crushing it under his foot, but that would mean having to get a new one. Filing requests. Filling forms. Answering yes to military clerks who asked him if he was a relation of General Veers’.

He curled up under the quilt and dozed off to the ending credits music of the soap opera in the living room.

It was dark, an unfamiliar, unsettling sort of dark, when the familiar sound of his comlink startled him awake. The quilt and troubled dreams had drenched him in sweat, and his body was quivering as if in anticipation of being stuck in the same room with an IT-O.

Zev staggered to the pile of stuff and, in the poorly angled few external light that filtered from the window, fumbled for the comlink. “Lieutenant Veers,” he finally spoke into the device.

“Oi, bukee! How ye doin’?”

“...Sorry?”

Whoever was at the other end of the comm brayed with laughter. “I just have naw hope t’not speak formal agin today, eh?”

Zev was about to hang up, when the man cleared up his throat and the accent along with it, “It’s Cap’n Sarkli here, remember? Landing Strip, 12, that poor sod covered in blood.”

“Yes. I remember.” Zev sagged to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Why are you... How can I help you, Captain?”

“Heh, bukee, y’know why I am commin’ ya.”

“As a matter of fact, sir, I do not.”

Sarkli laughed again.

“What is so funny?” Zev couldn’t hold his tongue.

“Yer accent. So ve _rrrr_ y Core.”

“Denon is in the _Inner Rim_ , and I have spent six of my formative years on Prefsbelt, in the _Outer Rim_ , sir.” If this meant another disciplinary sanction in Lieutenant Veers’ unimpressive career, Zev was not going to be sorry. Even if, this time around, there was no academy instructor licking his father’s boots and no Commander Laibach to grease the wheels and allow him to get off light.

“Aye, yer right.” One word at a time, Sarkli extricated himself from the hilarity and the rest of his accent, “So, Lieutenant—yer an eye witness to what happened on Landing Strip 12. I would like to have a word with you, listen to yer account of things.”

“An interrogation,” Zev finished in a flat voice.

“Nothin’ so formal, I said. You are at yer billet in... aha, there it is—97th Street, 33C, correct?”

 _They know where I live. Where to find me. Anytime_.

“Huh, the computer says you need to send in the lodging check-in form, y’know?”

“Yes, sir. I will see to that, sir.” _Fuck_.

“Aye, you will,” Sarkli’s tone turned a flirtatious singsong, “but not until I’m done with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Zev massaged his temples, which were starting to throb. “I will join you at once. Where are you? At the spaceport?”

“Naw way! Haul yer arse outta Alientown ‘n meet me at this bar called the Desert Rose; Greater Tion Street, 25. Not tryna be pushy, but if you aren’t there in twenty standard minutes, I’m callin’ it _obstruction of investigation_ an’ that’s not gonna look good in me report.”

“Copy that, sir.” _Is this how you ask potential partners out? If it is and you’re single, it’s no surprise you are_.

Zev closed the comm and quickly dressed again. His foot didn’t bother him anymore; the swelling had gone down completely under the bandage. He could have used it as an excuse to stay home, but no such luck. At last, he went to the living room. With some luck, age-induced hearing impairment and the HoloNet terminal must have prevented the Mazepas from hearing their home being addressed as ‘Alientown’.

They were sitting at the table, munching tiny, squirming fish from one big bowl at the centre of the table.

“Happy awakening, darling!” Petra greeted him. “Are you hungry? You must be hungry. I wasn’t sure Humans can eat live Chagri seaworms, so I have made you a sandwich with the seaworms’ eggs. They’re just like mayonnaise, you know. You like mayonnaise, don’t you?”

“Of course he does!” said Silas, waving his fork. A seaworm hopped out of his mouth and back into the bowl. “All younglings of all species like mayonnaise!” He ended the sentence with a loud flick of his tongue, an obvious Chagrian counterpart to the Human gesture of nodding knowingly.

“Thanks. I, uh, am going out now. With another officer, a friend of mine. I shouldn’t come back late—”

Petra chuckled. A tongue flick followed the laughter, too, Zev noticed, but it was shorter and made no noise. “Oh, darling, do not worry! Enjoy your shore leave and have fun in town. We were young and we remember what it was like, don’t we, Silas?”

Silas mumbled with his mouth full. His wife repeated the question, louder.

Zev took advantage of the ensuing marital banter to lurch into the kitchen. The sandwich lay on the counter, tightly wrapped in tinfoil, next to a full glass of blue milk. Zev hated blue milk, but his dry throat reminded him he’d drank nothing in the stars knew how many standard hours; he guzzled the milk, grabbed the sandwich, and went down to the street.

A passing hoverbus going towards the city centre saved him the embarrassment and expense of calling a cab; the nearest stop was several meters away at the turn of the road, but Zev only had to stand in plain sight under a lamplight and raise an arm to halt the bus. He wondered, sitting sprawled on an uncomfortable but clean-polished seat, how many everyday acts of bullying from Imperial personnel it had taken to turn people so acquiescent.

A few stops later, the blue-skinned Pantoran driver quickly dismounted from the car and a Human driver took her place. Zev frowned and focused on the surroundings he could see outside the window: the houses were starting to look cleaner and nicer, the shops classier and the passers-by a mono-species Human crowd.

He leapt off the bus a stop before the one he was supposed to alight at, just for the hell of walking to steam off the anger.

The sign of the Desert Rose was hard to miss: it was pink, and nearly as big as the solar array of a TIE fighter. As soon as Zev spotted it, and the people in uniform mingling with the people in civvies at the tables, his steps faltered. He wanted to turn away and leave. His brain didn’t help, unearthing a memory of his father reading his school report aloud: _What in the nine hells does “the youngling has severe trouble socialising with his peers” mean?_ The last school report before Zev was transferred to a military boarding school.

Imperials were not his peers, for fuck’s sake. He stalked into the bar, clutching that stupid tinfoil-wrapped sandwich to calm himself. Loud music was playing inside the place, and he had to lean close to hear what a young waitress was telling him—close enough to peek inside the gratuitously low neckline of her tank top.

The waitress checked on her notepad. “Ah yes. Your friend is sitting at table 25. He said he was waiting for you. Would you like to order your drink now?”

Zev quickly eyed the holomenu on the counter and went for the first cocktail at the top of the list, “A Pink Nebula.”

“Dry?”

“Yes, thanks.” Two standard years into his Imperial Navy commission, Zev still had no idea what a ‘dry’ drink was.

“Just so you know, table 25 is not between my boobs.” She said it with a grin that might be flirtatious, but he felt like she’d punched him in the guts. “That way downstairs,” she said, pointing towards the back of the room. Zev ran off like a soldier under enemy gunfire trying to reach a foxhole.

He scampered down the spiral staircase, eyes down to avoid looking at any body part of waitresses and female patrons.

Each table was marked by a pink shiny flower-shaped hologram, on top of which was the number. He quickly scanned the basement room, elbowing his way through the patrons, until he spotted table 25 in a quiet and depopulated corner. Just under a wall light, that was going to shine directly on Zev. Like in an interrogation.

Captain Sarkli spotted him, too, and waved him in.

Zev did his best to walk there with an air of nonchalance. It went all out the exhaust port when he made to pull the free chair, and saw his hand was smeared with a mustardy stuff that must be Chagri seaworm eggs. The wrap of his sandwich was broken. He’d held onto the damn thing too tightly. He dropped onto the chair, staring at his hand. Nausea fluttered in his stomach.

“Why’d ya get that, Lieutenant?” asked Sarkli. “They serve food included in the price o’ the drink, didn’tcha know?”

Zev shook his head. There was a garbage bin within tossing distance, and he threw the sandwich in there. Surely he must be imagining it, for the music was still loud and there was no chance he could pick up that noise, but he _heard_ the squelch of the sandwich inside the bin. It was a hair-rising noise, like that of a live organ.

“Sorry, sir.” He ripped a few tissues from the dispenser at the centre of the table and started wiping creamy food off his sleeve and glove. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to be social.”

“Never mind, me lad. So, what’re ye havin’?”

“I... I think I ordered a Pink Nebula.”

Sarkli whistled. Zev didn’t dare ask if it was an expression of approval or disapproval. “You, sir?”

“Yer gonna see.” Sarkli glanced up and grinned at the waitress who brought their drinks and a plate of food. Like the girl Zev had embarrassed himself with upon entrance, this one too had generous cleavage;  he could see the areolas of her nipples through her tank top.

This time, however, his cocktail stole his attention away from the feminine body: it was a flat glass chalice as wide as a Navy-issue mess hall dish, into which swirled liquor in two bright shades of pink. An electric blue umbrella decorated one side of the glass rim, and a slice of fruit the opposite. Zev almost laughed when this ridiculous thing was laid on the table in front of him. If anything, it smelled sweet and fresh.

Sarkli’s drink was a simple tumbler, filled to the brim with an orange liquid that sent up a puff of thin vapour. Sarkli put a hand over his heart and puckered his lips at the waitress. “Aw, thank you, darling.”

“Dying of thirst, huh?” she replied, putting the foodstuff in a free corner of the table within easy reach of both customers.

“Y’have naw idea.” A credit chip materialised into Sarkli’s hand and went into the girl’s apron pocket. “Keep the change, luv.”

She blew him a kiss, and trotted away with the empty platter. Without sparing even a look at Zev. Jealousy welled up in him, all the more humiliating because he knew it was irrational. Why should she have minded him, anyway? He had not bothered to thank her, and had not paid. “Captain, did you just... buy me this drink?”

“Aye.” Sarkli raised his tumbler and smelled its content with a satisfied ‘ahh’.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Answer me questions honestly, an’ we’ll be square.”

The gut punch feeling, again.

Sarkli jabbed his glass towards Zev. “To the Navy an’ to the Empire.”

He had no choice but carefully raise the unwieldy huge chalice and clink it against the captain’s tumbler. Drinking a toast to the Empire was too fucking much on the day he was supposed to defect. So Zev added at the spur of the moment, “And to waitresses who don’t wear bras.”

Sarkli dropped his head and nearly his glass, cackling. Zev quietly took the first sip of his Pink Nebula. The darker and the lighter component had the same sugary, citrusy taste; one was fridge-cold and the other at room temperature, and he prayed this wasn’t going to end in an upset stomach. The alcohol kicked in only after he’d swallowed it, and the kick was potent.

“I picked this place ‘cos they told me ‘s their office policy to have waitresses not wearin’ bras. Dunno ‘bout ye, Lieutenant, but a girl wi’ free tiddies does _things_ to me.” Sarkli was beaming over his drink. He chugged half of it without breaking eye contact, sat completely still for a few seconds, and belched. “Sorry. Starshine Surprise also does things to me. Jus’ different things, y’know.” He pulled off a glove and scooted a handful of small fried nuggets into his palm, completely disregarding the mini plastic forks on the side of the food plate. “So, what were ya doin’ on Landing Strip 12?”

Zev knew this was coming. He knew it since the defection plan began. And he had not prepared himself. It was either do or die. Lying his way out of the plot had never been an option.

“I heard a lot of noise. They talked of a bombing. So I went to check,” he said.

Unpreparedness had been a Hutt-fucking stupid idea. Now he didn’t even have the suicide pill with him.

“An’ what were  you doin’ at the spaceport at all? I mean... first thing I’d do after settin’ foot dirtside would be head off to have a good time.” Sarkli gestured airily at the bar they were in. He still had his eyes fixed on Zev, watching his every nervous twitch and eyelid flutter.

Zev shrugged. “In SecMonit, they teach us to assess the place we are in, first off. Defences, vehicles, infrastructures, location—more than teaching it, I should say, they _drill_ it into us.” He used his cocktail as an excuse to break eye contact, just for the length of a sip. The alcohol burned hot and cold on its way down, and when he looked into the NavIntel officer’s eyes again he felt a tiny bit braver.

“Charmin’. No rest for the wicked.”

“We aren’t wicked, sir. We are professional.”

“Aye, aye, no need to get huffy, bukee.”

Well, so, being bold paid off. The prying bastard had backed down. Small wonder General Veers had built his entire career and self-image around being bold on the battlefield. Zev drank a longer fill of liquid courage. It gave him the strength to smile. “Forgive me if I get defensive of my branch of service, sir. We’re so often referred to as bureaucrats, desk jockeys and—my personal favourite—the boring siblings of the thought police, that I’m afraid my patience is running somewhat thin.”

Sarkli laughed, rocking on his chair. Crumbs fell off his mouth onto the front of his uniform. “An’ I thought this bantha crap only happened in the Rebellion!”

Zev choked on his drink. “You... you were... part of the Rebellion?”

Sarkli kept smiling, but stopped laughing. Maybe because of a trick of the light and of Zev’s imagination, the glint of his eyes and the quirk of his lips took a sinister shade. “How d’ya think we earn our paycheck in Infiltration? Pickin’ flowers an’ pettin’ lothcats?”

Cogs and microprocessors fitted together in Zev’s mind at light speed: it must have been a trap since the beginning. An impersonator approaching potential defectors, pretending to be a Rebel contact. A painfully obvious covert operation—perhaps an entire hidden net, a trap set for desperate idiots like him. Like Velita Lully. The Empire had laid the net, and waited for them to blunder into it.

The alcohol burned a trail back up his throat, but it was too clogged with dread to even let him vomit.

Sarkli pushed the food plate towards him. “Eat, bukee, or yer gonna puke that booze all out. Would be a damn shame if me hard-earned creds went wasted like that.”

The first impulse was to push the plate away. Well, to fantasise about pushing the plate away, and politely decline. He glared at the food, then at Sarkli, back at the food, and tore into a small pile of flatbread sandwiches. The filling was crunchy lettuce and some kind of sweet ham, cut in slices so thin they melted into his mouth and tasted like paradise in protein form. After he’d devoured all the sandwiches, it occurred to him that maybe his dinner companion had meant for him to leave some, out of basic good manners.

However, Sarkli just laughed. “Y’were big time hungry, weren’tcha, eh? I know the feeling.” He said that last part a bit more earnestly, or so it seemed to Zev, then picked up his glass and knocked back half of the remaining booze in it. That left just a finger’s worth of Starshine Surprise at the bottom of the glass; it still smoked.

“Did ye know Lieutenant Lully was here, anyway?” Sarkli casually returned to the interrogation.

“No. We hadn’t kept in touch after graduation. I doubt I would have felt the urge to contact her, had I even known she was in Kuat City.” Zev snorted. “With what has transpired, I feel relieved I distanced myself from a traitor in due time.” _I’m sorry, Vel. Wherever you are, please forgive me_. The mental apologies felt weird; not so much trash-talking Vel aloud.

“What ‘bout Cap’n Iskaa?”

The name was familiar. Zev frowned, trying to remember even if he didn’t want to. “A fellow with that name was among the top scoring cadets in the fighter flight sim. One or two classes ahead of mine, I think.”

“One class. He was wearin’ an explosive belt under his uniform, y’know? A repurposed RaX-5 landmine. They could tell the body was his thanks to the DNA test. Not much of a body left at all, though, if ye ask me.”

“Are you implying the entire community of Prefsbelt alumni,” Zev tried hard to smooth the rough edge off his voice, “is under investigation for today’s incident?”

“Cool yer engines, bukee. _You_ ain’t under investigation.”

“That is a relief to know, sir. These issues might be a joking matter for you, but I assure you they aren’t for _us_.” Zev drank another long sip. His throat had gone dry. The sweetness of the Pink Nebula didn’t mix well with the sandwich aftertaste, but he didn’t mind it.

For the first time tonight, the smile on Sarkli’s face dimmed. “May I remind ye who got covered in blood ‘n entrails o’er the course of his duty, Lieutenant? Got bits o’ gore even in me mouth, an’ lemme tell ye, military-issue toothpaste ain’t no use for washin’ off that taste o’ blood ‘n poodoo.” He raised what was left of the Starshine Surprise glass. “This works better.” He finished off the drink, his hand shaking, and slammed the empty tumbler back on the table with a thud so loud that the table shook and Zev feared the glass would break.

“Ahh. _Kehenbo-ase._ ”

“I thought it was a Starshine Surprise?”

“Bukee, that was Huttese for ‘I’m havin’ the first good time I’ve had today, please don’t spoil it’.”

Zev’s cheeks flushed. Huttese. Right. That very word had been in the basic phrasebooks he’d studied at the academy. It meant “wonderful”— _archaic sexual endearment, frequently used in poetry_ , the dictionary entry stated.

“Hey, bukee. What didya mean by _us_? SecMonit, Prefsbelt pedunkees, or what else?”

It was a trick question, Zev could smell it as clearly as he could smell his cocktail. But he couldn’t fathom where the trick was, or what it was about. So he gave the simplest, most tight-laced answer, “Us in SecMonit, of course. It’s to the service and the Empire that I am most fiercely loyal, sir.”

His stomach started churning while his mouth was in mid-sentence. He drank another swig to dim the sound of what he had just said. He felt light, vaguely zoned out of his own body, with a bizarrely stinging awareness that he needed to piss now, perhaps vomit later.

Sarkli got up and motioned him to follow—but wait, follow where? To the real interrogation room? Zev didn’t move.

“C’mon, bukee. I’ll show ye to the ‘fresher.”

“I think I can find it on my own, sir, thanks.” Getting on his feet made them get tangled somehow with the legs of the chair. He tripped forward, and Sarkli grabbed him as if he were expecting it. Fucking son of a Hutt. Zev wanted to tell him that aloud, to punch him right in the smirking face. Smirking like he knew. _He knows. I’m trapped_.

Bloody stupid of him to have left the suicide pill at home. Strange, there were no stormtroopers running to arrest him—

Sarkli slipped Zev’s left arm over his shoulders and his arm around Zev’s waist. Zev felt a stroking hand over his outer thigh. “This way, bukee.”

Of course there were no stormtroopers. This place was a bar in the centre of Kuat City. Nothing bad must ever happen in Kuat City, a happy, perfect, wealthy, clean, law-abiding Imperial fief. Kuat City deserved to be Base-Delta-Zero’ed. Its elegant houses and trendy bars, its industry magnates who had been profiting on galactic wars for the last few centuries, its art treasures stolen from thousands of worlds that ships built by Kuat Drive Yards had devastated.

He was still torn whether to include Alientown in the imaginary frenzy of destruction, when a door opened in front of him and the light reflected on a row of sink mirrors made him shut his eyes. The air smelled of detergent and Human urine.

“I can handle myself from now on, Captain,” he heard himself say, and it was like hearing someone else’s voice. It sounded like his father’s. Not a good omen by any means.

“Jus’ lemme handle ye...”

“What?”

Another door, opened and closed. The click of an automated lock. There was a squat toilet on the floor, marked with half-erased, overlapping boot prints on the white ceramic.

Zev’s back was pressed to the wall; Sarkli pinned him into place, both his hands on Zev’s shoulders. That was so nonsensical. “Sir, the piss hole is over there.”

“Cut the chatter, wermo.”

Shit, was he going to beat him up in a bar restroom?

Sarkli leaned in. Zev tried to move but his alcohol-ridden body responded with an awkward shudder. Something slobbery and soft sealed his mouth shut. He flattened himself to the wall. Of course, forms of sexual humiliation were part of the interrogation techniques curriculum. He should have expected it. He stood still, without reacting; his arms hung forcedly at his sides, his fists clenched.

The kiss shifted, teeth nibbling at his upper lip, Sarkli’s tongue lapping gently at his medial cleft and wetting his moustache. In the meantime, Zev felt the other man’s hands slide to the front of his chest. One stopped at his sternum, the other went down until it groped through the skirt of his tunic and gathered his junk in one firm fistful. Not enough to hurt. But Zev winced.

Sarkli’s voice rumbled into his ear, so close it tickled, “Too hard?”

The hold mellowed. The thumb took to stroking the base of Zev’s cock, and much to his own puzzlement, that dumb piece of meat slowly but inexorably swelled in response.

“’s that better, Zevulon?”

A shiver crackled along his spine and tore apart the alcohol-induced numbness. Zev gasped and arched his body. Fucking nine hells. It was like Sarkli had read his mind in its deeper, shadier corners, where lay stored the tools—the women he could never touch, their smell and taste, their voices calling him by his full name—he used to get himself hard during the occasional blaster gun drills.

Sarkli’s lips were back on his face, kissing his left cheek where the skin was most acne-battered. How in the stars the man wasn’t disgusted, Zev couldn’t figure out. But it made him so grateful he wanted to cry. It was so pathetic. _He_ was pathetic. Had to stop this nonsense, get out of here. But he was too drunk to calculate the complex series of motions that would shove Sarkli off of him and lead him out of the toilet and out of the bar.

His only half-assed attempt at escape was a tilt of his head, and Sarkli interpreted the gesture in another way.

He kissed Zev on the mouth again; this time he stuck his tongue in. It was the first time someone ever kissed Zev that way. It wasn’t as good as his classmates claimed. There was this squirming, wet thing swiping across his teeth, and he had to rein in the impulse to bite it. Sarkli tasted like the drink he’d had, and that stuff was worse than Navy grog.

Despite himself, Zev responded to the kiss in kind. He pressed his lips tighter to Sarkli’s and his own tongue shyly pushed back the other man’s. His hands grabbed Sarkli’s hips; warm synthwool was such a familiar sensation it surprised him that now it had a sexual signification. Sarkli grunted, but didn’t break the kiss.

Zev assumed it meant approval. As a further proof, the groping and stroking on his crotch intensified in strength and speed. The growing pressure in his lower belly was uncomfortable to bear with a full bladder, but nothing insufferable yet. He noticed Sarkli’s hand on his chest had started moving in circles, too, and he willed himself to mirror the motion. Now Sarkli was shaking; Zev sensed the tremor in his cupped hands and it gave him a weirdly intense thrill.

Sarkli sighed.

 _Well, it’s easier than everyone ever made it seem_.

He considered touching a more interesting body part. His right hand began sliding into the crook of Sarkli’s inner thigh, but feeling up man artillery had ruined the whole thing for Zev once at the academy. Better playing this one safe. He steered his exploration towards the rear. What he clutched there didn’t feel any different from a girl’s arse.

Too fast to intercept, Sarkli slipped his hand from Zev’s chest down to his right thigh, and roughly shoved his leg up. Zev yelped out of the kiss; Sarkli giggled. “Buggerin’ hell, bukee, yer better’n I imagined.” The accent fitted well in this context, hoarse and broken up by heavy breathing.

The hand on Zev’s crotch was gone, and it gripped his lower jaw while something thick, big and pointy ground itself against his erection. _Oh. Shit_.

“What a good officer y’are.” Sarkli’s breath hitched. The drunk grin on his face widened. “Ye’ll do anythin’ I tell ye to do. Anythin’ at all, aye? ‘Cos y’wanna prove yer loyalty real bad.”

Zev wished he could dissolve into the wall.

“C’mon ‘n be a good boy...”

He froze, as Sarkli nuzzled cheek to cheek with him and rolled his hips. Once, twice—Zev offered no response. Sarkli stopped, released his leg, and stepped back. “Oi, what’s wrong?”

“I need to pee.” He realised how covered in sweat he was. His crotch was so tense it hurt. “And... and I have to go home.”

“Was that somethin’ I said?”

Zev tried to smile, without much success. “I don’t... Men aren’t really my... my choice of... you know, sir.”

“Then why in the blitherin’ nine hells didya order a Pink Nebula?” There was honest-to-the-Goddesses outrage in his tone. “Poodoo. D’ye _know_ what that drink is code for?”

“Code?”

Sarkli rolled his eyes, took off his cap and used it to wipe sweat off his forehead. “All ‘round the Outer Rim, it means yer into folks o’ yer own gender, single, an' ready to mingle.”

“...I did not know, sir.”

“Who let ye into the Imperial Navy?”

“It was my father’s idea.” Zev bit down his tongue; it tasted like Sarkli’s drink.

Sarkli smoothed his hair and put the cap back on. “Guess the fun ends here for now, huh? Have a good night, Lieutenant.” With his hand on the door lock, he turned one last time to Zev. “Ye could use a good kiss, y’know? An’ learn how to give one.” He shook his head, opened the lock, and was gone. After a few seconds, the door closed again. It gave Zev just enough time to catch a glimpse of a man in black uniform, peering over a sink in front of a mirror. So, the humiliation had witnesses. Fucking splendid.

Zev limped to stand over the piss hole and unzipped his trousers. His fingertips caught into the zip a few times. Thanks to the enduring effect of Sarkli’s ministrations, most of his load rained on the wall and the floor beyond the hole. The worst thing, however, was stuffing back his stubbornly hard half-mast into pants and trousers. Each step out of the stall made him almost cry out in pain.

The officer in black uniform—TIE pilot corps—cast him an indifferent glance into the mirror. He was busy applying lipstick to his mouth, stick in one hand and tissue in another.

“Sorry about the noise,” Zev said, dying of shame but trying to fix what little he could.

The man slurred, “Reeeeally couldn’t care less.” With the drunkenness the tone suggested, it was amazing he still had such a fine manual ability as to manoeuvre the lipstick. Zev thought of how many innocents he might have bombed down or strafed, and the admiration dissolved.

By the time he’d stumbled out of the bar into the breezy evening air, his head was spinning and the alcohol in his stomach rumbled and bubbled. Kuat City at night was more beautiful than in daytime: the streetlights radiated a soft yellow glow, mixing on the façades with the multicoloured signs of bars and cafés. An entire city of cafés, it seemed. Tables cluttered the sidewalk and awnings decorated with liquor advertisements shielded them from the cloudless sky, in which the orbital ring lights shone brighter than any star.

Zev shivered and hugged himself, shuffling over to the hoverbus stop. The flower-scented breeze had no mercy on the sweat with which his body had soaked through the uniform. Not for the first time since he’d been forced into the military, he wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and find his mother there.

The display at the bus stop read six standard minutes of waiting. He sat down perched on the edge of the bench, first crossing his legs, then leaning forward and folding his arms over his lap, to cover the improper spectacle he was making of himself.

Go home to mom... Yeah, as if his mother would ever— _stars, why can’t Human brains shut off like droids?_ —ever be happy to see him come home drunk and with a loaded blaster in his pants. Then again, his mother had always been happy to see his father come home from the war; well, _looked_ happy. Zev knew she had doubts. About the war, the Empire, dad’s promises that it would soon be over, just a matter of being strong for a little longer. She kept them to herself, and between herself and him, hushed and so subtle he only picked up on them as an adult, years after her death. Given another decade or so for those doubts to grow and mature, mom would have left dad. She would have been alright with Zev joining the Rebellion—maybe would have followed him.

He flinched back to the grim reality. The bus was in front of him, door open, people sitting inside. Zev hopped aboard, stubbing his toe on the step.

There were free seats at the end of the car, and he picked a corner one in the very last row. Try as he did to think about cockblocking things, his mind circled back to the feel of another mouth on his, of hands and tongues and body warmth. Not even an image of Chagri seaworms in a bowl could help. The lower deck gun remained primed and loaded. It started worrying him on the long run, as the hoverbus glided farther and farther out of the city centre and the boner barely softened; what if he had a medical condition? Honestly, even his father’s battle wounds had more dignity than this—no, no. _There is no dignity in fighting for the Empire, none whatsoever, in any capacity_.

To add insult to injury, the ride was so long it stirred the alcohol soup in his stomach. He was forced to spare a grateful thought to his naval training and experience of shipbound life: despite the nausea, he survived without puking until his feet touched the sidewalk again. The breeze cleared the worst of the queasiness at once.

Rather than breeze, indeed, it was cutting cold gusts blowing across 97th Street like in winter on Denon. Only, on Denon, it got so strong it tore passers-by off the snow-covered promenades and hurled them into the chasms between skyscrapers. Zev hurried towards home, staggering in the wind that pushed him from astern.

He was not the only sentient braving the night, though. She minced on her high heels out of the gate just as he approached it. He noticed the legs, which the miniskirt and fishnets didn’t even pretend to shield— _blast, in this weather?_ —before he noticed her face under the crude white lamp above the gate.

Weequay... no, close but not quite... “Clawdite?”

“Yep,” said the woman. She smiled. “Let’s see if you did your homework, space cadet. What can this ugly mug of mine do?”

“You’re not ugly!” Alright, he had no alien kink as far as he knew, and wouldn’t indulge in fetishisation anyway. But her legs were not ugly. Far from it. His cock agreed, damn it to all hells.

The woman laughed. Her face quivered, the pale green skin tone darkened, and in a few seconds a female Human face, framed by short dark curls, was batting eyelashes at him.

Zev’s breath caught.

“I’m a lot better like this, hmm?”

“I... no, I meant... It’s amazing you can do this. Your species. Flawless shape-shifting. Amazing.”

“Yes, yes, cutie, I know. So, are you and your best friend busy tonight?” She eyed his crotch and winked.

He fell silent. His heart raced, his cock ached, his cheeks burned, his stomach roiled.

“I’m registered with A.F.A.R. I’ll give you _everything_ and the proper receipt. You will not get in trouble with your superiors and the ISB. It happens all the time with unregistered hookers, so you have to be careful out here.”

That reminded him of Sarkli, of the kiss. He spoke fast and too loudly, to chase the humiliating memory out of his mind, “Okay, I’m coming with you. Where is your place? And... and the fee? How much is your fee? I’m just a lieutenant, you know; no general’s pay.”

“I’m assuming you mean standard performance?”

With no idea what a standard performance was, and hoping to the Goddesses it was basic Bendu monk position, Zev nodded.

“Fifty creds per hour. Local hour, by the way. It’s _longer_ ,” she drawled the word and winked again, “than the Imperial Standard Hour”

“One hour. Okay. So...”

The woman leaned onto the gate, tipping her shoulders so that her cleavage, squeezed in a skimpy strapless crop top, was exposed to the fullest. While Zev stared down there like the stupid horny mammal he was, she punched in a code on the lock keypad and the gate opened. She sashayed into the vestibule and started up the staircase.

Zev followed her. He didn’t hear the gate shut behind him; his ears were full of a blood rumble and of the woman’s ticking heels on the stairs.

He recognised one door on a landing. The Mazepas’ apartment.

“One more flight, cutie,” the woman cooed from above.

So that noise, in his bedroom... Zev ran up two steps at a time to catch up. He found the front door of her flat already open, the light on, and her crop top on the floor. Open. Easy. Beckoning. Vulnerable. It was almost too much to bear, and he was shaking.

“Come in, come in.” An old bed creaked.


	6. Chapter 6

Bloody unbelievable.

Veers looked around to locate where in the fucking hell he’d put his comlink.

Now, of all times...

There, on that shelf, next to a flower pot. The red blinking light of the device was reflected on the glass vase, for extra annoyance.

Piett hopped off his lap.

“Firmus—”

“Take it now or they’ll ring again later.”

There was no arguing when he used his admiral voice, even in a gentle tone.

Veers got to his feet and stomped to pick up the comlink. “Veers here. Who in the nine hells is this?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Piett frown at him, sitting on the sofa with his arms and legs crossed.

The person at the other end of the comm stammered an apology. At least it was clear enough for him to recognise the voice. Kijé. “Ah, thank the stars it’s you, sunshine. Sorry for shouting,” he added, “I was taking a nap.” He looked Piett in the eyes as he pretended to yawn, smiling. The admiral rolled his eyes, but his expression softened a bit.

“Is everything all right with the lockdown?” Veers asked Kijé the first conversational thing that came to his mind.

“What lockdown?”

Piett and Veers exchanged a wide-eyed look.

“I mean,” Kijé prattled on, “I... I just got orders from Coruscant.”

“Orders? But you are on leave!”

She kept on talking but he heard just the end of the sentence, “...and your son to appear together in a propaganda reel.”

It hit hard and burned like a blaster shot to the chest.

Veers leaned heavily against the shelf. He heard it creak faintly under his weight. He glanced at Piett again, saw him wave a hand palm-up as if to push him into answering.

“No,” was all Veers could gather to say. His own voice sounded so panic-stricken he wanted to slap himself. He’d never liked hitting soldiers who lost their shit in a war zone, but he’d have no qualms about doing that to himself. That sort of fear was a luxury General Veers couldn’t afford. He gathered up some aggressiveness and growled, “I’m on leave. This is the only truly free time I have gotten in three years, and I am not sacrificing one minute of it to the Press Corps. If your boss insists, give me his comm number and I’ll explain it to him in very clear terms.”

“But, sir, it’s a direct order from the Ministry of Information! You cannot refuse—”

“That will be all, Lieutenant.” Veers was about to shut the comlink, but Piett’s frown had evolved into a glower and he was shaking his head. “Whose side are you on?” hissed Veers, covering the microphone of the comlink with his free hand.

It was Kijé who answered, “General, you know I’m on your side! That’s why I’m insisting!” The blasted mic picked up sounds better than Veers imagined. “Believe me, I don’t want to do this job any more than you do. Lieutenant Veers is such an ass—” Silence. “...I’m so sorry.”

Veers drew a long breath. “I apologise on his behalf. That was utterly unprofessional behaviour.” Well, wait—what if he used that as an excuse not to get himself and Zev involved into that ridiculous propaganda stunt? The boy was a bad soldier, undisciplined and disrespectful of a colleague. Disgrace for the Navy, and so on... No, no, that could and would put Zev’s career at serious, far-reaching risk. Veers bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. How could he even consider that? Was he really that much of a coward?

“...General? Sir, are you still there?”

“Yes. Sorry. You were saying?”

“Uhm, I was saying—there will be more of that very soon. I have no idea what they’re planning yet, but—I know you hate to hear it, sir, but your presence here is a golden opportunity for propaganda.”

“ _They_ who?”

Kijé cleared her throat. “The... the Kuati government, for a start, and the Army Command—”

“What in blazes do the Kuati want from me? I’m not Navy! If they need to congratulate a Death Squadron officer on how he put their ships to good use, that would be Admiral Piett!” Veers looked at him again; the admiral stared back at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, I don’t think they’re interested in him, sir. It’s a matter of image, you see. He isn’t as striking as you are, and anyway admirals serving under Lord Vader aren’t considered marketable.”

Piett went very, very still.

“At the rate His Lordship goes through them—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Lieutenant,” said Veers.

“...Oh. Sorry. So... I really, really apologise, sir, but we must do this. If you keep saying no, I have to warn you that he Ministry of Information has its means of persuasion.”

A vision of IT-O droids armed with rolled-up newsflimsies sprung to life in Veers’ imagination.

“The ISB listens to them with a preferential ear. Your refusal would get you and Lieutenant Veers in trouble.” Her voice became shriller and shakier at every word. “They will suspect you of anti-Imperial feelings and obstruction of the war effort, do you understand?” Veers could picture her quivering lip and her eyes filling with the first tears.

“Alright! Fine! Let’s get done with this banthacrap!” He let go of the shelf and rested his back against the wall, crossing his ankles. In that position he was facing Piett, and seeing the admiral slowly relax while his eyes raked the body on display made Veers feel a bit better. “I take it you’re working out the details?”

“Yes, sir.” Kijé sniffled. “I will keep everything within the boundaries of good taste, I promise.”

“Reassuring. And, sunshine?”

“Sir?”

Veers sighed. “I apologise. In advance. For every idiotic and offensive thing my son is going to throw at you.”

“I... uh, thank you, sir.”

“Whatever he says, it’s staying between us. Is that clear?”

“...Yes, sir.”

“Perfect. Good day and glory to the Empire, sunshine.” He shut the comm, switched the comlink off and barely resisted the temptation to hurl it to the floor and crush it underfoot. The wall was cold against his bare back, and his body caught up with the sensation. He pinched his nose closed to dam a sneeze.

“For stars’ sake, Max, get dressed,” said Piett.

“Why, is that necessary?” He tried to make it sound come-hither. The result was a note of irritation.

“Yes, dear.”

Veers made a quick raid to the bedroom wardrobe and returned to the living room wearing a white dressing gown. When he sat down on the sofa next to Piett, the other man gave him one of his hungry once-overs and laughed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing wrong, nothing at all. It’s just...” Piett pulled off his gloves and ran his hands on the sleeve of Veers’ dressing gown. “Is this silk?”

“I guess.”

“I can see your scars through it.”

Veers knew that was meant as a compliment, of course it was. It was just wrong-timed, and rubbed him the wrong way. He took care not to show the upset, and returned the caresses in kind on the other man’s inner thigh. That made Piett nestle close to him, resting his head on Veers’ shoulder and toying with the blue-trimmed flap of the dressing gown.

 _At least you are easy to make happy, sailor_. Veers couldn’t help a fleeting smile, just an instant before the dread and the anger flared up again.

“It’s really bad news, isn’t it?” Piett asked.

“Sorry?”

“Max, it won’t help you to play dumb with _me_ of all people.”

“So, what do you want me to say?” He didn’t mean to snap, but it was like panicky shooting: once it started and more and more soldiers joined it, it was damn hard to cease. “The only thing my son wants—the only way he and I can get along—is to be left alone. Each of us to his own devices. He’s not going to like this propaganda clusterfuck.”

“Oh, please. If we only obeyed orders we like, we may as well cast our lot with the Rebellion.”

“It’s my private life. _Our_ private life. I don’t want the whole damn galaxy to lay its eyes on it.”

Piett started to say something, but at the last moment had the good sense and delicacy not to offer advice or call him an absolute berk, and kissed Veers’ neck. His hand slipped slowly under the dressing gown. Veers felt nails circle lightly over that old scar from when he’d been shot on Fleyars IV, about fifteen standard years ago. He remembered a medical officer congratulating him on still having his left lung intact. And as much as didn’t want to, he remembered Eli bursting into tears when he’d been stupid, thinking civilians had the same sense of humour as soldiers, and shown her the bandage during a holocall.

He sighed bitterly and grit his teeth at the memory.

“Max,” Piett drawled into his ear.

“Yes. I know. I’m distracted. Sorry.” He couldn’t take the edge of dismay off his voice.

“Would you like me to get lost for the time being?”

“After I’ve made you rush all the way down from the _Executor_? No way, sailor.” Veers looped his arms around Piett’s waist and stroked deep circles where he liked it the most, on the small of his back. In response, Piett nuzzled his face in the crook of Veers’ neck, like a tooka demanding cuddles of its owner. Veers quickly flicked Piett’s cap off and sank his face into the short hair. “Firmus?”

“Touch me a bit lower, dear, please...”

“You stink like an ashtray.”

“And you like it.”

He liked the piqued tone much more than the smell. “Oh, and your hair’s gotten longer.”

“I’m aware of that. No time to go to the barber yet. And it wasn’t _all_ Lord Vader’s fault.”

“No no, you should let it grow. It’s easier to grab.”

He felt Piett stiffen in his arms. The reaction was familiar; sometimes it had happened that, while they were in bed, something crossed the admiral so badly they had to turn off the engines long before reaching Wild Space. Usually, he was understanding. This time, it frustrated him. “What’s wrong with you now?”

Piett pulled away just enough to glare at him square in the eyes. “Never pull my hair.”

“Are you serious? I’ve been pulling your hair every blasted time you stick your face between my legs! Why are you complaining, all of a sudden?” He raised his voice until he was bellowing, “You’re all being so damn difficult, I’ve had enough! I regret they didn’t shoot me dead on Hoth, that would have saved a lot of trouble!”

“Don’t say that again, General.”

Rage leaked quickly out of Veers like fuel from a shot-through tank. The way the admiral kept glaring at him made him feel self-conscious, hyperaware of the shit he’d just allowed himself to spew. No fucking wonder Zev hated him. “Sorry,” he said in a small voice. “I apologise.”

Not averting his gaze cost him a more substantial effort than he’d have liked. He saw a flutter, a barely registered shift in Piett’s durasteel expression.

“Since you’re in the mood for disturbing levels of honesty,” Piett gibed, “I’ll humour you, dear. I was suddenly reminded of the first and last time my sister had long hair; a street after dusk and a drunken sentient with grabby paws made her opt for a shorn haircut for the rest of her life.”

“Makes sense. I didn’t know you had a sister.” Grammar made it vague as to whether that sister was still around nowadays, and Piett offered no correction.

In fact, the Navy man’s reaction was impossible to gauge from his scowling face. After a few seconds in which he was either lost in thought or deciding if he wanted to forget Veers, he gave a curt nod. “Shall we fuck in peace, now?” Harsh and commanding as it was, the tone carried a peace offering.

Of course the admiral didn’t want to listen to his personal shit. To every soldier their own full kitbag, and Veers had to carry his all by himself; it was fair. “Of course, sailor. Of course.” He let himself be pushed to lie down on the sofa, his legs spread and the dressing gown lifted to his waist. When he made to untie the belt, Piett lay a hand on his and gently swept it away.

Doing so, finally, made Piett drop the scowl and regard Veers again with a lustful smirk. “I quite like how you look in silk.”

“I thought you liked me better in nothing at all.”

Piett only answered with a brief, soft laugh. The swelling junk between his expert hands was taking up the most of his attention.

All Veers had to do now was lie down, let his gaze wander to the geometric patterns painted in light ivory on the ceiling, enjoy the sweet loss of conscience as blood was drained from one of his heads and flowed to another.

 _Better in nothing at all_.

Their first date. Eliana was seventeen. Wearing a green shirt and white shorts. He was seventeen, too. _You look nice, you know? It’s the first time I’ve seen you with clothes on—I mean, except for the swimsuit—I don’t mean it’s like seeing you naked—I mean, what I meant was, you look nice. With your clothes on. Not that you don’t without them—shit, Eli, I’m sorry_.

He sat up abruptly into the present. Piett let go of him. They looked at each other, blinking in surprise and mortification. Veers’ under-oxygenated upper head spun, and he lay back down with a huff. “Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts.”

“Max, if I hurt you—”

“Don’t worry, it was nothing you did physically.”

“But it was something I _did_?”

Veers draped an arm over his eyes. Shit, he wasn’t in the mood for arguing now. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m too angry to be of any use now. I’m really sorry. Shouldn’t have called you.”

“Yes, boiling in your own bad mood sounds like the best solution.”

Veers peeked at him from under his arm. “Well, I just did not imagine you would be so cold and dismissive.” There, he’d said it. Dropped the bomb. It wasn’t the first time he called Piett cold, but this was the first time he didn’t mean it as one dummy round fired among many others during pillow talk.

Too slow for the gesture not to be a careful way to contain mounting rage, Piett leaned on the back of the sofa, propping himself to his elbow. He said in an even voice, “I simply think that offering practical solutions is smarter than whining, General. Besides, trust me, I have my own issues, too. But you have more than enough on your pack already and I will not burden you with any of them, ever.”

 _So it’s_ my _fault for burdening_ you _with_ my _problems?_ It took some awful nerve to imply that. Veers sat up once more, for good, and smoothed down the skirt of his dressing gown. His erection was already softening. “Now I’m curious. Tell me all about these... _issues_ of yours.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s personal.” The tone and the glower were an ultimatum.

Veers flashed him a cruel smile and pointed a finger. “Look at you being so proud, and so terrified of appearing vulnerable! Does it have anything to do with you having flashbacks to your sister and your shithole of a homeworld?”

Although Piett didn’t look away, he winced. The little natural colour of his face blanched, like when he was on the same command bridge as an angry Lord Vader.

Truth to be told, that had been a shot in the dark; but it didn’t surprise Veers it had hit the mark.

“Yes,” Piett said icily. “It has something to do with that. And you will not ask for further details.” He staggered to his feet. Before he could take one step away from the sofa, Veers clamped his legs over Piett’s knees and turned him over, making him trip and drop to the floor on his back.

He knew the admiral was a faster, more vicious fighter than his unassuming physique would make anyone think. But he was faster, and stronger. He leapt on top of Piett, blocking his legs under his and cuffing his wrists over his head with one hand. Piett immediately started squirming; all Veers had to do to grind him to a complete halt was bring his free hand to Piett’s neck.

The admiral admitted his defeat with a Death Star superlaser-grade glare.

“I want you to promise me one thing, Firmus.”

“I’m not sure if you noticed, laser-brain, but I’m too furious to be paying attention.”

Veers had to smile. “Bollocks. You wouldn’t speak in your clean accent if you really were that mad.”

Piett writhed in another attempt at freeing himself. It failed. He sank flat to the floor, his breathing heavy. The pulse on his neck, under Veers’ fingers, was racing. The skin there had a strange texture at the touch; Veers had never noticed it when kissing him. Perhaps a long-cicatrised patch of synthskin.

“I’m listening,” Piett said. “Now hurry up. This is too bloody ridiculous.”

“Promise me that, once a day, I will be able to ask you a question you are going to answer honestly. None of your usual avoidant crap.”

“Max, for the love of—”

“Promise me.” He didn’t bother to hide the fact he was begging, rather than asking or, least of all, demanding.

“Fine.” Piett looked like he was chewing a ration bar gone bad. “I promise.”

Veers held him still, staring hard, for a few more seconds. Then he got up on his knees, releasing the other man. Piett immediately skidded away and stood up.

“What’s that on your neck, by the way? Here.” Veers pointed at the spot on his own neck. “It was like touching old synthskin. I know how that feels.”

“A training accident, or so they wrote on the report.” Piett snorted. “Most of the bad things that happened in that academy were written off as training accidents, you see. Anyway—a cadet in my dorm got high on death sticks, and started slashing at everyone with a vibroblade. My bunk, well, happened to be next to hers. Lucky me, she must have assumed I was dead as soon as she saw the blood on the blanket.” He flexed his neck, exposing the scar side. “The medidroid patched me up well, didn’t it? You couldn’t tell the synth from natural skin unless you had experience aplenty with it.”

Veers nodded, and hauled himself up to sit on the sofa again. As far as he knew, drugs had never been an issue in the war colleges _he_ had attended. Smuggled cigarettes were the very worst. Nor had drugs been an issue for the academies Zev had attended. As far as Veers knew. “Quelii Sector Academy, right? Did... did stuff like this happen often there?”

“Sorry, General, but the terms of the promise state I’m supposed to answer _one_ honest question per day.”

“Son of a Hutt.”

“Speaking of a rather less dangerous kind of death stick, are you still down for a pipe job or did I ruin everything?”

 _Only if I have permission to pull your hair_. Veers kept that to himself, lest the admiral forced him into a whole shore leave of abstinence. “You’ll have to give me your best, sailor.” He sat back and spread his thighs without lifting the dressing gown.

Piett was, or appeared to be, deep in thought for some time, scratching his chin and regarding Veers through narrowed eyes. Then he stepped close, but instead of kneeling he just went for the belt knot and undid it. “Would you please turn around, dear?”

With a suddenly increased heart rate, and not a little difficulty in fitting his long legs bent on the sofa, Veers complied. Could it be that, by _giving him his best_ , the sailor had read him in the deepest red-light fantasies and intended to eat his arse?

“Arms behind your back, please.”

He felt the belt slide on his waist, the touch of Piett’s hands gathering his wrists, the silk rope binding them together—all gestures unhurried, firm and precise but careful not to hurt, interspersed with gratuitous caresses to that sensitive area of his body. It sent a pleasant chill down his spine.

A gentle pull to his shoulder prompted him to turn. Piett pressed himself to him and pushed him with his back to the cushion, kissing him long and deep in a sample of what he could do with that foul mouth. Their teeth clacked together, Piett’s tongue swirled and swept in all the way to Veers’ soft palate. Further away, Veers was aware of something hard poking at his taut midriff that the dressing gown now left bare; it must be either the buckle of the other man’s belt, or the tip of his cock.

Piett didn’t quite break the kiss as rather dragged it out of Veers’ mouth, lapping a slobbery trail over his chin, down his neck, indulging on his chest, thin silk and naked skin alike. It wasn’t long until Veers was sweating under the dressing gown, and the tied hands forcing his arms down didn’t help. The belt constricted him, too, now that the pressure in his abdomen was growing again. The instant Piett flicked his tongue and his teeth over one nipple, he bucked with a hiss, and yanked at the silken knot binding his wrists.

“Careful, Max,” Piett breathed on his slick-wet skin, whose every hair stood. It was so nice Veers almost missed the rest of the words, “I _know_ you’re strong and can easily tear that restraint apart. But if we break something in our lodgings here, the cost of the item will be deducted from our pay.”

“Fuck... fuck you.” Fuck him for making that dry bureaucratese sound more arousing than a bawdy song. Fuck him for making General Veers forget he was angry (but wasn’t this the reason why Veers had wanted him here in the first place?). Fuck him for the giddy chuckle he let out while mashing his face into the fair hair above Veers’ cock, and fuck him for the quivering sigh that chuckle ended in.

Piett raised his face to wipe torn hair off his mouth and spit into the palm of his right hand. He grabbed the loading heavy artillery and began pumping up and down the shaft, so hard that Veers cried out. Through the haze that was quickly enveloping his brain, he could see Piett licking his lips just before going down on the bell-end. The speed of his hand didn’t decrease, but his mouth took its time sucking and tonguing.

Caught between the two different rhythms, Veers gasped and soon was reduced to begging for more—he had no idea for which of the treatments; more of everything. If he tried to shift his attention to another part of his body, a tug at the belt reminded him of his bound wrists, and every hair on his arms stood in pleasure. He was wet not just with saliva; he could tell he’d started leaking as Piett smiled and focused on licking all over the slit.

Veers rocked hard against the restraints, and Piett’s free hand slapped his thigh. Neither the work of his other hand nor that of his mouth stopped, mercifully. Veers tilted his head back, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth as he panted. Drenched, tied up, at the other man’s mercy—he ought to be ashamed of himself for liking this so much, really. But even shame was just another sharp point thrust into his lower belly.

A mewl exited his throat, sounding like someone else’s voice altogether, “I love you, I love you, I love you...” He sounded younger, maybe. Some stupid part of himself that would never grow older than the age he’d married, and would never stop believing in those few stupid words.

The friction began to hurt, for lack of lubricant. He groaned in genuine pain.

Piett stopped— _shit, no_ —only to gather some breath and take Veers’ length into his mouth. Halfway through and back first, then all of it, deep down to his throat. It was hot and wet and tight, and Veers wanted to live in this moment forever. Piett sucked him hard, to which his body responded with a shudder. He was grabbed by the hips and slammed down into place. With an effort, Veers cracked his lust-heavy eyes open and met Piett’s gaze. His cheeks were scarlet and puffed up from the meat he was swallowing whole, yet his stare was serious and warning; it was a fucking insane, beautiful sight.

“Sorry,” Veers wheezed. “Won’t do it again. Please... please, go on...”

Piett made a ‘hm-hm’ sound. It sent a thrum of air running all over Veers’ shaft.

Veers forced himself to stay still, to stiffen himself against another violent shiver. Thank the stars Piett had not vetoed screams.

Once the suction resumed, he couldn’t resist for long. His vision blacked out as the pressure in his lap burst in three burning hot spurts. Spent to the last round and doused with sweat, his body sagged to lie on its side. His mind, for all he cared, had drifted off and become one with this world’s atmosphere.

Piett released him with a quiet, wet pop. “May I trust you not to punch me if I untie you?” His voice was hoarse. Veers just smiled with his eyes closed. A soft kiss brushed his temple; fingers entwined with his and then moved to undo the knot. In the fog of endorphins, the soldier side of his brain suggested using that chance to seize Piett by surprise and pin him underneath him.

The operational outcome of the plan was Veers’ arm around Piett’s waist, and Veers’ face resting on Piett’s lap. Feeling a warm lump under his cheek through the admiral’s uniform was almost more delightful than the blowjob.

Piett took to stroking his hair. No offence, but Eliana had been better at this one task: she was not so delicate—no, so _hesitant_. There were things in which his wife was simply irreplaceable. All the same, Veers lay there enjoying the touch until it lasted.

“So,” he said after some time, “shall I return the favour in kind?” He turned to kiss the bulge in Piett’s trousers.

“Maybe later tonight. I have to go now.”

“You’re kidding.”

Piett sighed. “Work to finish. I know, I know, I’m on shore leave and so on. But Lord Vader trusts me to keep a watchful eye over the repairs to the Lady.”

“Did he say that? Trust you?”

Fear crept into his voice, “Believe it or not, he did.”

“Need some help?”

“Thank you, General, but no. I’ll be fine. Would you mind getting up?”

With too much damn grace for someone who’d just been sucked off so well, Veers moved off of his lap. Piett picked his gloves and his now crumpled cap off the floor. Not a drop of semen had stained his uniform, and the flush on his face had vanished as if the admiral had never fucked in his life. At another time, Veers would have been in awe at the Navy man’s aplomb. Instead, a voice in the back of his mind remarked, _See that, Max? That’s how expendable you are_. The sort of morale-destroying shit commanders tried not to tell clonetroopers back in the Wars, or stormtroopers nowadays.

He propped himself up on an elbow. “Firmus.”

Already starting towards the door, Piett stopped and looked at Veers over his shoulder.

“Did you like me?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Piett shook his head. “I swear to the stars, Max, if you’re getting insecure about how much I enjoy making love to you, I’m pounding that hogwash out of your big arse before the next rotation.”

That was better, Veers told himself. He’d said ‘making love’ instead of ‘fucking’. It was the best Veers would get. He could live with it. The sailor’s heart was well-guarded, but in the right place. “Please do.”

Piett blew him a kiss. After he left, the apartment seemed so empty that Veers ran to take another shower just to fill his ears with the slosh of water.


	7. Chapter 7

It was like the awful old days in the Axxilan antipirate fleet: Piett never, ever would allow himself to show the least exterior sign of breakdown for as long as he was outside his bunk on the _Smiter_.

Thank the stars the walk between Veers’ apartment and his was much shorter. He leaned heavily against the door that had just shut behind him, pulled off his boots, slid to the floor, and hugged his knees. Veers’ taste still filled his mouth, and he didn’t dare swallow. Just breathe. He stayed curled up there until the hard-on in his pants ached too much to ignore.

Having just smoked dick in a similar apartment had taken the edge off his poor man’s amazement at how roomy and luxurious the place was. Even the bathroom failed to impress him now. Sure, the tub was big, but the water-filled dumpster he and his sister used as impromptu swimming pool on summer days was bigger.

Maybe he should comm Attica, he thought while rinsing his mouth. He couldn’t trust Haidar to have been a good son and done that himself. In the unlikely case he had contacted her, Piett couldn’t trust Haidar to not have fed her a load of poodoo.

He checked his uniform in the full-body mirror on the wall: clean. But his trousers tented on his groin. This was not the way to present himself to Attica, even if the comm station would only frame him from the bust up.

So he quickly stripped, studied the multiple chrome taps of the bathtub, figured out how to activate the shower, and set it to cold. The water jet that whipped him was so freezing he cried out. At the academy, in the communal showers, the other cadets would have made him pay dearly for such a display of weakness.

Just the thought made Piett clam up and shiver in silence under the chilly water, for the brief time it took his ventral cannon to be disarmed. His hand was so shaky it took him three attempts to switch the shower tap closed. He tottered out of the tub and wrapped himself in the first towel he could grab off a shelf. Soft and warm as if it were fresh off an ironing board (or so it felt to his shuddering cold self), the fabric smelled of floral detergent. With the towel wrapped tight over his shoulders, he ventured out of the bathroom to locate where in the nine hells his luggage had been parked.

It had been shipped planetside days ago; he had given a list of items to one of his aides and let her do the packing, since he didn’t have the time to do it on his own. None of the officers in the _Executor_ ’s senior naval staff seemed to disapprove. An admiral was not supposed to pack his own things like any cadet; and in any case, Ozzel had been a lot more spoiled than Piett.

The luggage waited for him in the bedroom. It was just one suitcase—a suitcase, not even a military trunk. After some hesitation over his shabby civilian clothes, Piett went for a clean uniform. He had to make a good impression. The only items he didn’t bother putting on were the belt and the boots.

The comm station was very sleek and very modern, state-of-the-art technology, a lot like the one in his quarters on the Lady. Except that the one on the Lady was better. He punched in the intersector, interplanetary and local coordinates that made up Attica’s number, over twenty alphanumeric characters in total—and he remembered it all by heart. “Pathetic,” he muttered as the comm beeped and whistled. Still so attached to that Force-forsaken planet he’d stopped calling home long before the Imperial Navy transferred him elsewhere...

A pre-recorded voice spoke up in accent-less Basic, “Thank you for contacting Attica’s Repairs and Spare Parts Garage.” The video terminal remained blank. “Our office hours are from 3 to 8 Axxilan Northern Hour and from 10 to 17 Axxilan Northern Hour.”

Fuck, how did that compute in Imperial Standard Hours?

“Please leave a message after the signal,” the voice mail droned on, followed by a beep.

Piett sat stiff on the chair, biting his lower lip. Static noise barely above the hearing threshold filled the silence over the comm.

“Hello, Attica. It’s me. Firmus. Your brother. Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call you this late—”

The comm made a screeching sound. A female voice said, “Fir, y’absolute mad pedunkee, ‘s that really ye?”

Piett’s breath hitched, as if punched out of his lungs. “Attica—”

The video channel activated, revealing the grinning face of a girl he’d known for as long as he’d known himself, and the wrinkles and dark-circled eyes and stark white fluffy long curls of an old woman he did not know.

“Buggerin’ hells,” she said. “Look at ye!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a happy sound somewhere between laughter and the start of crying.

Piett fingered the rank badge on his chest. It gave him a pathetic crumb of courage. “Ah, you mean this, don’t you? Yes, I’ve made it to admiral. Did you see the HoloNet News? The victory on Hoth? I was the fleet commander.”

“Of feckin’ course I saw! D’ye think we ain’t watchin’ the news?”

“Well, when I was a lieutenant I met a lot of sentients who hadn’t noticed the Clone Wars were over and who thought the Empire was just another Hutt cartel—never mind, never mind.”

Attica rolled her eyes. She seemed to sit back on a chair, and Piett now noticed she was wearing a blue mechanic suit, full of patches and extra pockets; it had grown several more of both since she had started working. A rack hung on the wall behind her, every shelf overflowing with wires, tools and engine parts.

“You like what I’ve got here, huh?”

Piett flinched, and returned his eyes fixed into his sister’s. “It looks like you have taken good care of the shop, yes. I... I was sure you would.”

“It _looks like_ you have taken _good care_. Aw, fierfek!” She burst out laughing. The contrast between that booming, coarse laughter and the impeccable imitation she’d done of Piett’s accent jarred him. Attica went on, “Yer talkin’ like an admiral, too. Makin’ me ashamed o’ me tongue. Wait, lemme see if I can talk proper Basic too...” She frowned, puckered up her lips, and sat up a bit straighter. A curl fell off in the middle of her forehead and she pulled it back; the gesture brought Piett’s attention again to her hair.

“You look well,” he tried. “How have you been?” Better not to think how long it had been since he’d read her last message, and left it unanswered at the bottom of his inbox.

Attica shrugged. “Been okay. Business ain’t... _isn’t_ bad. I was of a mind to hire me a shag... a servant. ‘s that the word in Basic? Not the word for slave.”

“A shop assistant?”

“Aye! That one! Shop ‘sistant. Ain’t it a wee long?” She shrugged again. Piett realised the gesture annoyed him. Good stars, why? Had he grown so completely unused to the freedom of gesture civilians enjoyed?

Attica threw in a hand-wave for good measure. “Whatever. Fact is, I’m gettin’ old. My bones don’t like movin’ boxes an’ heavy parts ‘round the place.”

“You should have told me. I would have bought you a droid.”

“Aw, please! I coulda _built_ a clanker myself! Naw, naw, Fir, thanks but naw. I jus’ need to figure out who to hire. Neighbour pedunkees— _kids_ ain’t... _aren’t_ barebones like we were back in the ol’ days. But I don’t trust ‘em near my parts, an’ even less near my moulee-rah register.”

She cracked a little smile, but Piett didn’t give in to the half-hearted joke, if it even was a joke. They looked at each other across the light years, as silent as the space between them.

He opened his mouth but she beat him to it, “So, if you are not interested in my borin’ wee life, why did you comm?” It was spoken without accusation. Just a matter of fact. It was so disarming that Piett was afraid.

Well, if working with Lord Vader taught people anything, it was how to be efficient while also being afraid. “Speaking of kids, I met Haidar today. He’s here. On Kuat.”

Attica only blinked.

“He’s fine. He... he joined the Navy, he’s Intelligence.”

“Aye, I knew he was plenty smart.” Her tone was resigned.

“No, I mean, he’s in the Naval Intelligence agency. It’s a tough bureau, and a rather secretive one.”

“A tough what?”

“Bu-reau,”  Piett spelled out, praying it was a fault of the connection if Attica hadn’t understood the word. “An office.”

Attica snorted. “That bukee hardly knew how to read an' write! How’s he made it to Navy flimsi-pusher?”

“No, no, he doesn’t have an office job. He’s seen action.” That was vague as the nine hells, but he was lost for further explanation.

“So he’s keepuned many Rebels?”

He was disgustingly grateful Attica had dropped the bureau topic and spared him the heartache of correcting her poor Basic. “Yes. We met by chance. I... was wondering if you had ever heard from him? At any time, since he left?”

“ _Left_. Please, Fir, you talk well but can you damn talk honest? The bukee ran away.” She propped an arm on the invisible surface her comm apparatus lay on, and rested her chin on the palm of her hand; the image wasn’t high definition, but Piett could spot a burn scar on the skin, all the way down to her wrist. “Never imagined he was greyback stuff.”

 _Neither did I_.

Attica watched him with narrow eyes, then smiled. “An’ you didn’t imagine either.”

He bit his tongue.

“Listen, Fir, we all thought Haidar was jus’ bein’ his father’s son. ‘s not yer fault for not noticing he was his own man, an’ maybe a better one than Caleb was.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“If you want me to tell him anything on your behalf, please let me know. I can make him comm you.”

Attica’s free hand picked up a screw from off-screen. She studied it while she spoke, “No need to bother. I’m fine knowin’ he’s fine an’ that yer with him. Yer goin’ to keep him around you, aye?”

 _Stars, no_. But slowly, he nodded. Since she was obstinately studying that stupid screw, he was forced to say it aloud, “Alright. Yes. I will keep him around.”

Attica put down the screw and looked him in the eyes again. “Hmm. Swear ‘pon ol’ Boonta’s all-seein’ nawees?”

“...Upon old Boonta’s all-seeing eyes. You have my word of honour.”

“Thanks, Fir. Yer the closest thing to a good father Haidar’s ever had, y’know? No surprise he went for a greyback.”

Piett rolled his eyes. If Haidar had so wanted to enlist, he could have done so like all the civilised beings in the galaxy and walked into the recruitment office. The stars only knew _where_ he had enlisted. The Navy and some branches of the stormtrooper corps occasionally recruited among delinquents, and the Corrections Service was a notorious dumping ground for sociopaths. It wouldn’t have surprised Piett to find Haidar on a prison barge, either as a convict or as a guard. NavIntel, a secret service, was a more delicate matter...

“An’ how are you, Fir?”

“Sorry?”

Attica’s index finger became huge at the forefront of the screen, tapping a few times. “You got a rainbow jacket, you were sayin’. ‘Twas at Hoth, aye?”

The pride in her voice made him feel better. “Exactly.”

“HoloNet News said the old admiral had a stroke jus’ before the battle. Didn’t say you got promoted.”

“Well, I did.” _Thank you, Lord Vader_.

“Fierfek, but the halapu didn’t say one word ‘bout you, absolute zero. ‘s all about some general son-of-a-blaster.”

“Veers?”

“Aye. Are you pateesa... I mean, are you pals... are you _together_? How’d ye say that in proper Basic?”

“Friends. We’re good friends, yes.” Piett was fairly confident Attica’s screen would not render the blush on his face, so all he had to do was act cool.

“All helmet an’ no head, I bet. D’you remember that? They say it in Mandotown.”

“Yes, yes. Well, he’s no Navy man,” that came out so very Core and haughty he had to smirk at himself, “but he’s a fine soldier.”

When Attica shrugged, he looked away, to the timestamp at the corner of the screen: the local hour indicated it was late night on Axxila.

“If ye say so, Fir! So, you’ve got a Star Destroyer of yer own?”

“ _Executor_ -class.”

Attica was struck dumb. When Piett started to fear the connection had died, she said in a flat voice, “Naw way.”

Pride welled up in his chest. “Oh, yes.”

Attica bombarded him with technical questions in rapid fire, her eyes shining. He answered without missing a beat; question after question, bright smile after delighted laugh, Attica seemed younger and younger. He found himself slouching a bit on the chair—not slouching, no, relaxing. Stretching back to a time when he and Attica sat on the floor, tinkering with old spare parts, old tools, and an old model starship whose hyperdrive they wanted to fix so that they could fly away and roam the galaxy. Gifts from their father for Boonta’s Eve; so long ago that their parents were still together.

“Class 2.0 hyperdrive, of course.” His child self was listening, too. “And the sublight engines reach forty megalights.”

“Any chance yer comin’ to introduce yer fair Lady Ex to me, sometime?”

Piett imagined the _Executor_ orbiting over Axxila, the arrowhead shape of the Super Star Destroyer as seen from a rooftop only a lithe and nimble child could have climbed. Certain folks in the neighbourhood complimented wee Firmus by predicting him a wonderful career in the thieving field. “I so wish you had joined the Navy Engineering Corps. You could be working on those machines night and day. And travel. See the galaxy, get out of Axxila forever. I’m sure you would have been great.”

“I _am_ great at my job.”

“Yes but... no offence, the flagship of the fleet is one thing. Axxila, well, quite another.”

The way Attica’s expression dimmed had a familiar appearance. His own. That was his own face. And his own cold voice masking the rise of fury, “So I’m wastin’ my life an’ my talents here?”

He shut his mouth tight.

“Fir, that was what you meant, aye?”

“I just wish you were in a better place.”

“I am in a good ‘nuff place, ye blast-brained koochoo. I’m home.”

He had to be brave, he had to not be afraid and tell her. Since she wanted honest talking. “It’s a terrible home, and you know it. I found something so much better, and I wish you did, too. You deserve it.”

“Well, buggerin’ hells, thank ol’ Boonta that my wee sailor brother’s here to tell me how to live my life.”

“Attica, please, don’t be so difficult—”

“An’ you don’t be so damn... what’s the word? Judgey?”

“Judgmental.”

“Naw, naw, that ain’t the right word... What’s the word for when, y’know, a Hutt can tell their slaves what they must and mustn’t do, track ‘em where they go, keepun ‘em if they damn want?”

Piett thought about it. “Controlling? Manipulative?”

“Aye!”

“This is _not_ what I’m doing! I just... I just want you to be safe. And happy. In a good place.”

“An’ you know better ‘n me where to find this good place, huh?”

Her mockery riled him up. “Wherever it is, it’s not Axxila.”

“Y’know, Fir, it’s like we had a fight o’er this poodoo before. But I’m sure this is the first time. How long you been thinkin’ this?”

The words weren’t easy. Every awful memory that had made him want to leave his homeworld piled up like bricks over his heart. How could he just _tell_ her? She had lived there, with him. She had to know.

At the very least, she did guess his thoughts. Attica sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Had their mother been still among the living, she would never have allowed her to go outside with hair that long. “You worked so hard to make this place better.” Her voice was so soft and devoid of anger he was taken aback. “‘Tis better, y’know. I’m fine here. Life’s tough, aye, an’ where in the galaxy isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“So, are ye havin’ a good an’ easy time bein’ at war?”

His thoughts raced back to Lord Vader’s private quarters; to himself tiptoeing to the meditation chamber, fear-tinted respect pushing back the urgency of the news he had to relate; to the scarred skin he’d glimpsed before a robotic arm lowered the black helmet over it; to the asteroids that did not concern Lord Vader, but had consigned several men and women to their interstellar graves; worst of all, to himself not even trying to resist. _Yes, my lord_. Of course, courage did have a tendency to melt like organic matter in xenoboric acid when you stood in Lord Vader’s presence. But he was the admiral and he was a far better, braver, smarter man than Ozzel. Cowardice was a luxury Lieutenant Piett of the Axxilan antipirate fleet could never afford; neither was one Admiral Piett would.

Slowly, he shook his head. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the universe,” he added.

“Aye, I know. Really, I know. ‘s what I think o’ me fair wee shop here.”

The comparison gave him goose bumps and a twitch in the stomach, but he let it slide. If there could never be agreement between him and Attica, at least there could be peace. Or a truce of sort. He shifted on the chair. His back was aching, he’d been sitting too stiff. “Are you sure you don’t want me to tell Haidar to comm you?”

Attica went quiet, picked up a fine-sized screwdriver and tapped it onto her puckered lips.

Whatever her motherly instincts and her good sense were debating, it was not his right to ask. So he let her ponder for as many long seconds as she pleased.

“Naw,” was Attica’s verdict. “Since yer keepin’ him close, you can tell me how he’s doin’.”

“You aren’t demanding daily reports like my commanding officer, I hope?”

Attica laughed.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Piett said humourlessly. “But you can rest assured I won’t leave you hanging.”

“Oi, why wouldya want me dead anyway?”

“Sorry? Oh... no, I didn’t mean hanging in that sense... Never mind.”

“Y’know, Fir, you should write me. I can read Basic jus’ fine. Got used to readin’ for my taxes an’ business stuff. I read Basic a lot better ‘n I speak it.”

“Very good. So you won’t have to stay up late to talk to me and... and listen to me being daft.”

“Bah!” She waved circles in the air with the screwdriver. “You remember what summer’s like here, hmm? Couldn’t sleep anyway. An’ the air conditioning’s better here ‘n at home. Blast it, y’know what? The shop is the true home. Told ya.”

So, just like he had no life outside the Navy, his sister had no life outside that junk shop. He had no idea what part of it all burnt the fiercest and angriest in the pit of his stomach. A familiar durasteel vice was tightening its pressure around his skull. “Yes, I understand. Well, have a good night, Attica. I’ll keep in touch. I promise.”

“G’night back atcha, Fir.”  She planted a kiss on her grease-stained hand. Her fingers closed in to the camera, blocking the view. “Keep it for when it’s night where you are.” Before he could protest he was too old for this saccharine blether, she ended the call.

Piett considered switching off the terminal altogether, but what if someone important tried to contact him...? They’d reach him on his personal comlink. He was on shore leave, for stars’ sake. With an unnecessarily hard push of the on/off button, the comm terminal went dead.

The HoloNet was still accessible, and it would be either abuzz with coverage of the mess Haidar had been involved in at the spaceport, or entirely silent on the matter—which would be much more telltale about the severity of the incident.

He’d check later.

Piett got up, took off and folded his tunic, and returned to the bathroom. Disembarkment syndrome had a plethora of obnoxious symptoms, and migraine was an ever-present one among many. It was natural he had a case of it, after over a year spent non-stop on a spaceship. The migraine had nothing to do with Attica, Veers or Haidar.

He opened drawer after drawer, only to slam them closed again. You’d think the Kuati would know well the needs of Navy personnel fresh off long hauls in space. For lack of better medicaments, he opened the tap in the sink and bent his head under the running water.

Not too cold, not too warm, none of the chlorine taste it had on the _Executor_ and on Axxila (unless it was simply too polluted to be drinkable for Humans), so clear it took his brain some effort to accept it _was_ water—that this was how water was supposed to be. He stayed there until his neck ached from the uncomfortable position.

The migraine now wasn’t anywhere as bad as others he’d endured through whole workdays without showing the least sign of discomfort to Ozzel, the entire fleet staff, and Lord Vader. While rubbing a towel over his hair, his reflection in the mirror scrutinised him with an increasingly disapproving grimace. Frown lines, dark circles around the eyes like if he’d been punched, sagging skin at the corners of the mouth. And yes, he needed a haircut; the longer the mop, the more evident the greyness and the receding hairline. He may have never been a looker, but it would be damn nice to still own a young body that wasn’t susceptible to migraines.

“Enough whingeing,” the admiral ordered, staring hard at himself. “Return to your station.”

Immersing his brain in work would be as refreshing as immersing his head—well, both his heads—in water. He padded out of the bathroom and slowed to a halt in the centre of the living room, the towel limp on his shoulders.

His document bag. He’d dumped it somewhere in Veers’ apartment and forgotten it in his hasty retreat.

He whipped the towel off his shoulders, tossed it to the floor and mashed it underfoot. The fabric crumpled but remained immaculate, and it puzzled him for a fraction of second before he realised he was barefoot, his boots peacefully resting by the doorway. His rage evaporated, leaving him blank and tired and uneasy in the silence of the apartment. It was a different silence from the one in his quarters on the Lady, unsettling and filled by foreign muffled noises: the low hum of speeder traffic, birdsong, a rustling and rattling against the windows.

Speaking of windows. There was a floor-length one at the opposite end of the living room; the plants outside weren’t trees, they stood in vases. He hadn’t realised the apartments here had terraces. It must be a good place to smoke. Cursing the cigarette pack and lighter that lay tucked into the document bag, he reconnoitred that newly conquered terrain: the air reeked of earth and greenery and was too fresh for comfort with damp hair and only trousers and shirt on; the intense golden sunbeams, at a low angle that pre-announced twilight, were too bright and he had to shield his eyes; plants in bloom and wooden chairs with a matching table littered the terrace, which looked out on an inner courtyard.

The terraces, Piett noticed by squinting at the façade on the other side of the courtyard, were linked for every two apartments. Plant vases arranged in rows served as demarcation lines. Piett moved away a vase just enough to allow himself passage, and stepped into the terrace side of Veers’ apartment. Same floor-length window, closed, through whose glass he could see the sofa and his document bag, placed in such plain sight on the table that it resembled a bait. He was sure he had not left it there originally.

With no hope at all that the door would be open, he tried the handle. Of course it didn’t budge. He huffed a deep breath and knocked on the glass pane.

Veers appeared in full uniform, grabbed the bag on his way, and strode to open the window. The smug sneer on his face made Piett consider kneeing him in that sensitive groin of his.

“Forgotten anything, sailor?”

Piett gripped the bag with both hands, and tried to pull it out of the general’s paw that held it between three fingers. Veers didn’t let go.

“Max, for stars’ sake,” Piett hissed, “anyone can see us. Stop being a berk and—”

Veers released the bag at once, while Piett was pulling. The bag thumped onto Piett’s chest and he nearly tripped backwards.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Veers drawled. “And if you value discretion so much, maybe you could set the good example by not dropping your work stuff in my flat and showing up in your underclothes to recover it.”

Under the combined power of sunlight, anger and embarrassment, Piett’s face burned.

“I was beginning to think you’d never have the guts to come and ask for it back. What took you so long?” Veers peered down, and his smile widened. Piett followed his gaze to between his own legs.

“It’s not what you think, you dirt-pounding tosspot.”

“Oh? And what was it, then?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Good. I will carry on assuming you boxed the Bendu monk. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

“Go?” That would explain his fully clothed state, down to the polished boots. “Is that propaganda balderdash with your boy happening so soon?”

Veers’ face fell, and the scowl wasn’t much of an improvement over the arrogant smirk. Well, a vulnerable point to hit was as good as any. Piett shrugged, playing innocent. “Try to look at the bright side: the faster you get it done, the faster you’ll be rid of it.”

“Actually, I’m just going out for dinner with my staff officers.” Despite the darkened facial expression, Veers had lost none of the mocking drawl. “I would have invited you, too, but as you said, _anyone can see us_. It would be awkward to explain your presence to my staff. Besides, we are all going to be Army officers; you would be out of your element.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“I knew you would, Admiral!” Veers was smiling again, and Piett wanted to slap him with his document bag. “And, to appease the jealousy and heartache you’re failing so spectacularly at hiding—I intend to rant at length about my family issues to them. Not your favourite conversation topic at all.”

Piett laughed nervously. “I appreciate your brutal honesty, General.”

“Yes, I know, on occasion you do.” Veers started to turn towards the open window. “Have a good night, Admiral, however you might choose to spend it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Of course he wouldn’t come to visit him once he was back from dinner. Of course. Piett bowed in polite acknowledgement. An itch ran across his nostrils. “Good night, Genera—” He sneezed before he could hold his breath, and had no free hands to cover his nose.

He didn’t look up at Veers, waiting for him to ask him if he was alright, telling him to march back to his quarters and dress up in heavier clothes.

Instead, without a word, Veers retreated into the living room, pushing the window shut behind him. He pressed a button on the lock and the glass pane switched to opaque.

Standing there with his bag and his runny nose and dishevelled clothes, ears perked to catch the noise of Veers’ footfalls inside, Piett was once again his younger self on Axxila checking a new message in his inbox with the words ‘reassignment request’ in the subject line: same sensation of being cut open, eviscerated and sewn back as an empty shell of Lieutenant Firmus Piett, _reassignment request denied_.

The noise of military boots faded, and he heard a faint one that might be the front door opening. He trudged back to his side of the terrace, groping into an outer pocket of the bag for his cigarettes. He plopped himself on a chair (the blasted Kuati hadn’t bothered with pillows; his back would make him pay for that later on, in the wee hours while he worked), with the bag safely held on his lap, and lit the first cig of the evening. The nearest vase served as ashtray; the gracile white and light blue flower growing there didn’t seem to mind.


	8. Chapter 8

Neither university, nor the minimal training Kijé had received to earn a rank of lieutenant, had ever given her lessons on how to deliver bad news to a general. All things considered, Veers had taken it in stride; if he had gotten angry, it wasn’t at her. Kijé kept repeating this to the clamouring voices in her brain as she footslogged home. Be it her improved state over the past weeks, the natural sunlight, or the pretty city she watched from the tram window while nobody looked at her funny (or looked at her at all), the voices actually listened and piped down.

The tram stopped in front of the barracks, and the barracks themselves were a piece of architectural beauty: not as nice as the library with its Naboo touches, but an elegant style that had been in vogue all over the Core three centuries ago, with wooden windows, sloping roofs, and columns sculpted into statues that personified martial virtues.

The stormtroopers at the gate stood so still they, too, were more akin to statues than sentients, until one rasped at Kijé, “Ident, please.”

Kijé let them scan her code cylinder and, in addition, her fingerprints and retina. This had not happened during the entire first day of her stay here. Odd.

“All clear. Please move along, ma’am.” The trooper’s boredom and tiredness seeped through the helmet vocoder. Kijé would not dare worsen his mood by asking him if there was any specific reason for the extra security measures.

She crossed the main courtyard, then the smaller one, walked up the two flight of stone stairs that led to her block of rooms, and was safely inside her locked quarters. The journey had been without incident, not even one random passer-by in the courtyards asking her if she had a lighter.

Pulling off her hoodie over her head, she tested if the HoloNet terminal worked with vocal commands, “Terminal, on!”

Nothing happened, so she pressed the old-fashioned on/off button. This might be an officer’s billet, but such luxury items were not for humble lieutenants. Kijé suddenly missed Bethan and Sixtee. She hoped they were all right during the maintenance sleep.

The HoloNet News logo appeared first on the screen, offering breaking news about something that had happened at the spaceport, but she had to shut it off and swipe to her inbox: there was a red new message.

“Please, Shiraya,” Kijé muttered, “let it not be Chief Kastle...”

Sender: _Gen. M. Veers_

Subject: _Dinner_

_Lieutenant,_

_Hope everything went well. I am having dinner with my staff tonight, would you like to join us? They could help you figure something out for that propaganda thing. I’d appreciate if we could agree on details before you did all on your own. It’s a delicate matter for me and for Lt Veers, I hope you understand._

_We’re meeting in two standard hours at a restaurant called The Old Guard. It’s in Core Square, Tantor says you cannot miss it once you get there. Don’t worry about being uninvited, I told him Admiral Piett might come along but he already made it clear he’s busy, so we have a spare seat booked. No worries about the bill, I’m buying for everyone._

_Show up only if you can and want. This is NOT an order._

Kijé laughed under her breath. Not an order, alright. During the Thundering Herd training sessions, Captain Visdei was fond of quoting an ancient adage popular on her homeworld: _everything a general says is an order_. It sounded better in Visdei’s native language, which made it rhyme.

Thank Shiraya the room had a minuscule en-suite ‘fresher, complete with sonic shower. Kijé was a slim girl, and even she had trouble slipping in and out of the shower; a man of Veers’ build  would have gotten stuck between the shower and the loo. But it was better than having to use communal showers along with strangers.

She wasted half a standard hour deciding whether she should send a reply to the general stating she would come; another twenty minutes to write it, but just thirty seconds to send it. That left her with the sensation of a job well done. The fine dinner would be her prize. She made a quick HoloNet search for the restaurant, but the news ticker at the top of the search engine page attracted her attention: _Spaceport ‘attack’ was accident, 7 sentients dead_.

Kijé tapped on the headline to open the full article. She pursed her lips as she read it; truly appalling that a technician’s shoddy job fixing a fuel leak should cause a Lambda shuttle to explode. But if it had been an accident, why should it have any relation to the security checks at the barracks gate, and hadn’t General Veers mentioned a lockdown...?

She swiped to her inbox. Sandwiched between the messages from Veers and Kastle, there was that _Security Alert—Kuat City Imperial Spaceport_ thing. The sender was the Ministry of Information Personnel Office. Kijé’s heart jumped into her throat, but it _couldn’t_ be a reassignment order, or something horrible like that, meant to kick her off the _Executor_. She read the mail subject line again, this time aloud, to ensure her brain got the memo. Then she opened the message.

_Attention all members of the Coalition for the Preservation of the New Order in the Kuat system:_

“Thank you, Shiraya,” Kijé whispered. It wasn’t anything she was personally at fault for, if so many others were being addressed.

_A suspected Rebel saboteur struck the Kuat City Imperial Spaceport today at 10:00 Imperial Standard Time, heavily damaging a Lambda-class shuttle and killing seven sentients. All clues point to a defection attempt bravely foiled by our Naval Intelligence colleagues, to whom we grant our most heartfelt gratitude._

_While investigations are still ongoing, however, it is crucial to maintain public order and a feeling of security in Kuat City, one of the Empire’s most prized and loyal bases. Therefore, all COMPNOR personnel are **required** to endorse the official version of events (see attached document) that will be publicised on all media outlets in the following hours. **No mention is to be made of the sabotage**. Transgressors may stand immediate trial on charges of defeatism, alarmism, and divulgence of Imperial secrets._

“Okay, got it,” said Kijé. She was a bit taken aback that the terminal didn’t reply, but then she remembered this extremely basic computer wasn’t Bethan; she knew the model, it didn’t even have an AI operating system.

She didn’t have anything to do before it was time to go out for dinner. What a pity she hadn’t borrowed a book at the library, after all. Idling in the courtyard or the barracks cafeteria and recreational area with the other officers was out of the question; Kijé had had enough social interaction with perfect strangers for today.

Lieutenant Veers might be lodged in this same place, too. She might run into him again.

She spent the next few hours watching tooka holovids, burying the dread in cuteness. One featuring two albino loth-cats rolling around in leaf piles was so adorable she had to send it to her mother and stepmother; she had vowed to write them every day and let them know she was totally fine and having a good time. This was a good chance.

The instant she was dressed in a clean uniform and had filled a pouch with money, tissues, pills and pads, she paused with her hand already on the keypad lock: _Annice, are you_ sure _you know where Core Square is?_

The HoloNet terminal loaded more slowly now that she was in a hurry. Kijé sighed in relief at the city map: Core Square was reachable on foot from here; she had gotten fast and could make it in much less than the average fifteen minutes the map suggested. In any case, the nearest tram line that got there was the same that stopped in front of the barracks.

Zooming in to Core Square, she noticed an ad for the Old Guard restaurant. The price range was high. “Oh, dammit.” Had the general not bothered to check that, before gallantly offering to pay the bill? Just to be safe, Kijé added her credit card to the modest cash sum inside her pouch.

The lights were on in the stairwell when she left her room and went down to the courtyards, which were bathed in the low-slanted light of sunset. The sky was a darkening blue, and stars, starships, satellites and the lights of the orbital ring were beginning to glow. There were birds, too, small and black, gliding in flocks over an updraft.

It was so silly, but to her, the birds made this planet’s sky truly a sky. She had seen Coruscant once, brimming with traffic, where everything that moved and shone in the atmosphere was artificial; it had been more weird than impressive. Now, eight standard months since last time she’d been off the _Executor_ , Kijé successfully suppressed a grin and laughter, but a childish joy pulled the corners of her mouth nonetheless.

She wasn’t even afraid anymore of spying, under one of the lampposts flickering on in the square, the face of Lieutenant Veers. He wasn’t among the courtyard idlers, anyway, nor standing in the queue that had formed at the gate’s sentry post. Kijé overheard young officers chatter about nightclubs and how to get there. The ensign behind her asked one of her friends to watch her place while she ran back to her bunk to collect a forgotten ID. While she was away, Kijé heard the friend say to someone else, “Want to bet they’ll think her ID is fake?”

“Nah, too easy.”

“Yeah.”

They laughed.

“How about betting me they’ll assume Sikun to be at least seventeen standard years old?”

“I say _under_ seventeen. If I’m wrong, I’m buying the first round. If you are wrong, you’re buying.”

“Deal.”

The officer in front of Kijé stepped forward, was cleared to proceed, and the stormtrooper motioned her to take his place. The check was fast, and she was outside the gate the very instant the tram braked in front of the stop. She used her infantry training to sprint across the street and the tramway, and hop on board well before the doors closed.

The interior of the car was all polished wood, yellow ceiling lights, no ads projecting screens, not one centimetre of chipped paint, and star-shaped bas-reliefs on the walls. She peered over to read the informative holotag above the ticket validation box: _The Wessex G-5 HoverTram, An Engineering Jewel of Kuat_. This model had been in service since three centuries ago, so beloved and functional as to never need replacements. At the first sharp turn, thus unbalanced, Kijé nearly slipped off her seating. The varnish on the wooden bench felt and smelled like a mixture of Naboo honey and military-issue boot polish. She dug in her heels to prevent further such accidents throughout the five minutes’ journey to Core Square.

She alighted last after a bunch of officers in civvies, and a handful of genuine civvies. Her boots thumped softly on one-square-meter cobblestones, the biggest she’d ever seen, white with pale pink streaks. The square all around had been the site of the oldest spaceport in Kuat City; it sure was huge enough to easily allow several transports to land. The Star Compass stood high at the centre, its needle point lit up and trained to the north star of Kuat—or rather, where the north star used to be a millennium ago, when the monument had been built. People were taking holos of themselves in front of the monument. Shops, bars and restaurants lined the square.

Kijé checked her chrono: twenty standard minutes to the X hour. Twenty standard minutes to scour 80.000 square meters and locate the restaurant. At a barely slower pace than her jogging top-speed gait, she flung herself under an arcade. The passage was so wide you could have crammed a tramway in it, with trams hovering in both directions.

She spotted the general before she saw the restaurant’s sign. Kijé had stared at his backside so many times when he ran ahead of her on the track that she could have recognised it anywhere in the universe. Next to him was Major Laestri, who noticed her approach and frowned. Veers followed the scowl and smiled. “Good evening, Lieutenant! You’re early. I see the good habits of the infantry are starting to rub off on you.”

Kijé halted at the regulation three paces and saluted. “Good evening, General, Major.”

That display of military proper form seemed to appease Laestri, who relaxed his frown a bit and grunted, “ _Bon vespre_.”

“In Basic, please,” said the general, and to Kijé, “At ease, sunshine, at ease.”

“It’s fine, sir,” Kijé reassured him, “I understand a few phrases of Bruixan.” She glanced at Laestri; he did not seem impressed.

“Good for you, but I do not, not even a word. So stick to Basic for tonight, won’t you, Major?”

“Yes, sir.” Laestri shifted his scowl to the restaurant’s posted holomenu.

A heavy wooden door and blue curtain-ed windows protected veiled the interior, but the tinkle of tableware, the hubbub of conversations and a few strains of a wind and string concerto could be overheard.

“Thank you for allowing me to join your company, sir,” Kijé told Veers. She said it in a confident and casual tone, but it sounded pathetic nonetheless, implying she had nobody else to go out with. Not that she minded—simply didn’t want to advertise it to a superior officer.

This superior officer just as casually answered, “Major Laestri here was already suggesting I simply _slap some sense_ into my son.”

Laestri rolled his eyes, but kept staring at the menu.

“That wouldn’t appear very good in a propaganda reel that’s supposed to celebrate Imperial family values, would it?” Veers concluded.

“No, sir, I don’t think so.”

“Sir, on _my_ homeworld,” Laestri butted in, “our family values taught that misbehaving children could be court-martialled.”

“So your opinion is that the Empire is too lenient?”

“Not the whole Empire. But there are people who know your Lieutenant Veers, sir. They know he’s an arrogant slacker—”

“I _know_ the words I used. You don’t have to remind me.”

Laestri fell silent, and Kijé considered vanishing into the crowd.

“What I mean, sir,” Laestri tried a more subdued tone, “is that I don’t agree with this entire... show.” He glared at Kijé and opened his mouth, but then closed it and returned his attention to the holomenu.

Well, what a fantastic way to start a night out.

“By the way, does the Press Corps have any fresh news about the spaceport?” Veers picked up the thread.

Kijé blinked; he was a superior officer, perhaps he could be told… no, no, no. The directive was adamant. “Oh. None. No, it was all an accident.”

“With overblown safety measures. Typical General Shale. At least we don’t have to go around with an armed escort anymore.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, up until half an hour ago. At first even I was told it had been an attack—”

“Sir!”

The three of them turned to meet Major Tantor’s jovial face. Colonel Covell followed suit, glancing around for a place to mash a cigarette stub.

“I see we are already late for the debate, General,” Tantor said. “We apologise. It was my fault.”

“You aren’t late. And never mind. Were you with your family?”

“I would have loved that but no, sir; their transport is arriving tomorrow. I got entangled in the spaceport affair, trying to pry information.”

“Major Tantor is trying to say,” Covell cut in, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it underfoot, “the staff of this garrison shows a disconcerting lack of gossipy people.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Tantor conceded good-humouredly.

Covell’s expression darkened. “Speaking of gossip, what is the Press Corps doing here?”

It was not pleasant to be on the business end of that glare.

The general jumped to the rescue. “ _I_ invited her. Her insight will be useful.”

“I understand, sir.” _But I disagree_. Covell left that part implicit but no less clear.

“Well. Now that we are all present, shall we go in?”

Like the obtuse Imperial officers in the satirical holovignettes published by the Rebel propaganda, all officers present—including Kijé herself—replied with a clipped ‘yessir’ and followed the general in strict hierarchical order inside the restaurant.

They stepped into a vestibule with dark blue carpets, crystal chandeliers, flower vases in every free corner, and waiters in white that looked like so many ISB officers. Kijé tried to catch a glimpse of hidden cameras and microphones while one of the waiters led the group to their table; it was unlikely there might be none, but she didn’t spot any and to ask the waiter would require a boldness far beyond her ability.

The waiter presented them with a round table behind a painted wooden screen, where the music was muffled and unobtrusive. Veers removed his gloves and sat down first, then in clockwise order Covell, Tantor, Laestri, and Kijé last. She had the major to her right and the general to her left.

On Naboo, each place setting would have had a napkin folded in the shape of a flower or a bird, three glasses, three knives and three forks. Here, they had nothing but a squarely folded napkin and an oval-shaped holoprojector that, once pressed, showed the menu.

“Is this really written in Basic?” Laestri asked. The other men laughed.

After a quick look at the names of the dishes, Tantor raised an eyebrow. “You know, Sephas, I’m not entirely sure.”

 _Sephas_. Were the officers going to be on first-name basis for the whole night? How was she supposed to address them? Kijé swallowed hard to ease a sudden, fast tightening noose around her neck.

“What even is a _Queen Jamillia bouillabaisse_?”

“Queen Jamillia?” Kijé blurted out. “Where?”

“At the bottom of the main courses section,” said Tantor. “You’re from Naboo, aren’t you? Do you have any idea what this dish is?”

“A fancy version of the Gungan bouillabaisse.” As if these men had any idea of what a Gungan bouillabaisse was in the first place. “Same spiciness, but with a much less pungent scent. I doubt they make it with the correct prawns here. They’re hard to fish even on Naboo.”

Veers switched off his menu. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m going for nerf steak.”

“Same,” Covell and Laestri echoed.

 _Your turn, Annice_. _Quick_. “Same.”

Tantor shrugged. “I suppose I’ll be the adventurous eater. Kijé, you are at liberty to try my bouillabaisse and tell me if it’s an abomination unto Naboo cuisine.”

Kijé winced, then her rational brain caught up and assured her it was not a mockery; Major Tantor was being kind and poking polite fun at the food, not at her. “Thank you, sir. I will be very glad to let you know.”

“Eager to prove these snobs wrong, huh?” Covell grinned. He was less scary when he scowled. The stark-white and well-lined teeth, clearly implants, had something odd and feral under his black shrub of a moustache and the scar lines around his mouth. “I’m beginning to like you, Lieutenant.”

That was _so_ not reassuring.

“Decorum, Freja. It would be a shame if the Kuati threw their lot with the Rebellion because an Imperial officer was rude at the restaurant.” Veers motioned a waitress to trot over and take the orders, while Covell snorted with laughter.

“Alright. And what drinks would you like?” the waitress asked at last.

“Plain water, please,” Kijé spoke up, and immediately three blank stares were trained on her. “Sorry.”

“One jug of water for the whole table,” Veers chimed in. “And I think we’ll be fine with a Corellian red.”

The waitress tapped on her datapad and read aloud a list of available brands. Veers was so fearless as to demand ‘the cheapest one’. The waitress arched an eyebrow, but took the order anyway and left.

“Sir, you were stationed on Corellia for a couple years, weren’t you?” asked Tantor. “Have you ever heard of any of those wines?”

“Not even one. Then again, I was not sent there to develop a drinking problem.”

“It’s a testament to your strength of character that you didn’t, sir,” said Covell. Veers just rolled his eyes, while the other men laughed and growled it was damn true.

Kijé sat through a few jokes about the Corellians, in fast growing raunchiness, until the waiters reappeared and the hilarity quieted down; one carried a magnetic tray with the jug of water and the bottle of wine, the other a basket full of breadsticks. Among happier cheering noises than if the Rebellion had been wiped off the galaxy for good, the drinks and appetizers were placed at the centre of the table. Laestri palmed a quarter of the breadsticks inside the basket, the biggest Kijé had ever seen gracing a dinner table, while Covell went straight for the wine; Veers shook his head when offered, Tantor happily pushed his glass closer to the bottle.

Veers beat Kijé to the water jug, poured a full glass for her first, and then for himself. “Thanks, sir,” she said.

He passed her a handful of breadsticks and, without waiting for her further thanks, turned to Laestri. “Sephas, for the love of the stars, leave some room in your stomach for the main course!”

Laestri gulped down the piece of bread he was chewing. “I’m hungry, sir.” He had pulled off his gloves to eat, and all his left hand fingers except for the thumb were strikingly pasty-skinned against the rest of his complexion. Kijé had heard he’d been wounded by an IED not many years ago; field hospitals seldom were stocked with enough synthskin to match the natural tone of each and every one of their patients—one of the MedCorps several shortcomings that the Press Corps was required to keep mum about.

“And don’t worry about the room, sir,” Laestri went on, breaking another breadstick in two halves. “I have endless room for food.”

“Same.” Covell’s glass was already empty, and he reached for the bottle. “No offence to the galleys on the _Executor_ , but once in a while it’s damn nice to eat real food.”

Veers smirked. “Since the admiral is not here, no offence is taken.”

“Kijé,” Tantor made her flinch, “how long does it take to cook a Naboo bouillabaisse?”

“Oh... not long, actually, but I think the problem is that we will have to wait at least an hour before they bring us the food.” Everyone’s eyes weighed on her. Her throat tightened. “It’s... it’s the Kuati etiquette.”

“What in _blazes_?”

Covell’s outburst made her flinch and look up. The colonel, eyes wide with shock, sat frozen with the bottle hovering above his glass, not bent quite enough to pour wine.

“If this restaurant follows the traditional rules,” she tried to repair the damage, “the meals are supposed to be brought after no less than one local hour after they have been ordered.”

“Why this barbaric custom?” asked Tantor, amongst the groans that rose from every corner of the table.

“In the past centuries, the noble families used this interval of time to discuss business without interruptions; consuming the food together was a symbol of agreement and successful deals. The... the chroniclers claim that the notables who had to decide whether to side with the Mandalorians or the Old Republic went on for nineteen hours before dinner was served.”

More groans. “But are Kuati hours are equivalent to twenty Imperial standard minutes?”

“About twenty standard minutes longer, sir.”

“ _Collons!_ ” Laestri voiced the overall mood. “Can I curse in this place?” he added more quietly. “If nobody understands the language?”

 _I do, asshole_. Kijé imagined whacking him with the napkin.

Veers rocked back on the chair and gestured at a passing waiter, who peeked past the screen. Veers told him to bring another bottle of wine and more bread. The troops’ morale instantly improved.

Covell took it upon himself to pour Veers a glass of wine, and this time the general didn’t refuse. Kijé tried a breadstick while the other officers drank and discussed Corellian alcoholic beverages. The bread wasn’t as crunchy as she had expected, not salty at all, and there were finely cut aromatic herbs mixed into the dough. It tasted a bit like the wafer cookies that people in her hometown baked for the winter fest. The sip of fresh water she took next should have tasted like hot black tea, always with too much honey when her mother bought it at the market stalls; her stepmother made the best tea, and never got the amount of honey wrong.

“Well, gentlemen,” albeit affable, Veers’ tone carried an authoritative note that drew her out of her musings and reduced everyone to silence, “I suggest we honour the local customs and use this spare time to talk business.”

“As you wish, sir,” Covell replied. Kijé wondered if she had to say the words herself, too, but nobody else did so she assumed it was fine.

Veers grabbed his full glass. “How do you tell your child to do the very thing he hates doing the most?”

Worried glances were exchanged among the men. Nobody so much as glanced at Kijé, who felt the strangest blend of relief and irritation. Not that she actually had any input to give on filial matters, since she had never even considered having children yet, but had she been dragged here just to warm the chair with her skinny ass? That irritation lent her a cool, professional voice, “A direct order would work in the literal sense, because Lieutenant Veers is bound to follow it.” It didn’t falter as the men turned to stare at her. “The psychological effect, however, for all I know of Lieutenant Veers,” the general was regarding her with an unreadable serious face, “might be outstandingly negative; I’m sure none of us here wants to create a rift between a father and a son over what you think is yet another act of buffoonery from the Ministry of Lies?”

Laestri blinked, Covell shot her a sideways glance over his wine glass, Tantor pretended there was something worth staring intently at on the tablecloth in front of him. It didn’t take a Jedi’s mind-reading dark arts to guess they feared for every out-of-place reaction of theirs to be reported to the thought police. They must be assuming her choice of words was a provocation, and whoever dared to openly agree would be in trouble.

The awkward silence temporarily deflated Kijé’s gall, until Veers broke it. “The rift is already there, as big as a crater. I am not planning on widening it, however. And just to be clear, this is not a matter of politics; I trust Lieutenant Kijé to take good care of the purely propagandistic side.”

Being trusted felt nice. Like the warmth of winter tea.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, General,” said Tantor. “You brought us all here to talk about a... personal matter?”

“Exactly.”

“Something along the lines of,” each word piling onto his astonishment, “you have problems with your son and you need advice?”

“Yes.”

The men gaped at each other again. Perhaps out of his rank, Colonel Covell was the first to clear his throat—was it uneasiness, wine, or both? “You did tell me he wasn’t doing well at the academy.”

“That is a long story.” Veers looked down at his glass, then tried with fleeting success to smile. “But since we have plenty of time... He used to be a very smart kid until he lost his mother. After the accident, he started shirking school and getting himself in trouble.” His frowning gaze was fixed upon the glass, so fixed it was uncanny. Kijé had never seen even elderly people who had survived the Trade Federation invasion display that thousand-parsecs stare. It was like something out of a stereotypical war holomovie. “He’d never harmed a fly in his life, and within a couple months he was the decade’s record-breaker for being called to the principal’s office over schoolyard brawls. It got so bad that he scared off all his friends. The teachers and school counsellors tried what they could, but...” He shrugged.

“All because he lost one parent?” Laestri glanced at everyone else with an incredulous look on his face, shaking his head. “Spoiled child.”

Veers yanked up the wine glass and downed half of it.

“That’s harsh, Sephas.” Covell cradled the glass between his palms. “A harsh _truth_ , though. General, do you remember those orphans at the evacuee camp on Marasaln? Those who wanted to sell us unexploded ordnance?”

“Lucky you they only tried to sell you ordnance,” Veers retorted. “I got a little boy—younger than my son, but who knows, maybe he just looked small because he was underfed—well, this kid marched at the side of my hover tank for a good fifty meters explaining to me that he would _take me to sister, very pretty girl_.”

Laestri laughed, and that sound sent a shiver down Kijé’s spine more than the ugly story itself. “I did that when I was a kid on Bruixa. It’s funny because I don’t know if I ever even had a sister, but the soldiers gave me money in advance all the same.”

Hands covered Kijé’s ears. She gave a wince, but it was just Major Tantor pretending to shield her. “Don’t listen, sweetheart; these things aren’t suitable for youths your age.”

Everyone except Kijé laughed, Laestri the loudest of all. Kijé wasn’t sure what to do, so she settled for keeping silent and smiling a bit.

Laestri was also the first one to recover from the bout of hilarity. “You should let me have a word with your son, General. I could tell him a few very educational stories about how he better be grateful,” he picked up a breadstick and waved it around to underscore each word, “that he got a safe house to live in. A house is no less of a house without a parent around.”

The general grimaced and drank another sip of wine. “I tried that. Think I haven’t seen my fair share of shit in thirty years I’ve been doing my job? It didn’t work. Zev responded with some balderdash about how wars aren’t legitimate in the first place—clearly topics that are far above the head of a thirteen year-old, don’t you agree?”

Kijé nodded along with the others, although she found it odd the general sought validation for that opinion.

“The most notable occurrence was when he spat on my uniform.” Veers’ expression morphed into a crooked smile. “Served me right for wearing it during shore leave instead of civilian clothes.”

“For the love of...!” Covell suffocated his fury in the nick of time, made a gargling noise, guzzled the rest of wine and poured himself more.

“Do I need to remind you all this is not information I want to become public?” Veers glared daggers all around, lingering a few seconds longer on Kijé than anyone else.

She was the first to say, “Rest assured, General, this is going to remain confidential.”

“Or else, Miss Propaganda—” Laestri began, but Veers waved a hand and the major went quiet at once.

“Was it your decision to send the boy to the academy, sir?” Tantor dared ask.

“Brenn, spare me the sugar-coating and throw me the real question: did I bother to ask the boy if he _wanted_ to get into a military school?”

“So, he didn’t?”

“I am not proud of that decision. He was a violent little loner, his school was about to expel him, and there was no way I could  drop out of active service to stay with him.”

Did people on Denon not have relatives who could offer support, though? Grandfathers, uncles, cousins? Officers like Major Tantor could ask the real questions, while doing so would be inappropriate for Lieutenant Kijé. Some worlds had an obsession with nuclear families, unhealthy as the concept seemed to a Naboo.

“Of course, when I told that to Zev, that was when he spat on me.”

“Please, sir, tell me that earned him a slap. At least one.” Covell sounded like the story was giving him physical pains.

“I wouldn’t harm a hair on my son’s thick head. Ever.” The general’s trademark scowl was there, but a few cracks were audible in his voice. He was clutching the glass to keep his hand from shaking. The ability to catch such details made Kijé feel slightly, shamefully smug. Veers faked a lighter tone, “Anyway, the naval academy did him a world of good. He was never a model student, but damn if I care. What matters is that he got out of his shell. To an extent. At least he stopped picking fights with other kids. Still picked fights with me if we tried to talk for longer than... you know, generic holiday well-wishes and the like. Mind passing me the wine? Thanks. After Zev graduated, we haven’t spoken anymore until today.”

 _Please, merciful Shiraya, pleasepleaseplease don’t make him mention that I had a fight with that asshole._ In an impromptu offering to the goddess, Kijé downed her whole glass of water. It was cold and froze a few of her teeth;  she casually pressed a hand to her cheek and ignored the discomfort.

Veers’ voice was hoarse from the fresh wine he’d downed. “It did not go well, that’s all you need to know. It annoys him even that I care about him.”

“How old is he, twenty?” asked Covell.

“Twenty-one.”

Kijé raised her eyebrows. Despite having seen his birth date with her own two eyes, her brain still refused to accept Zevulon Veers was younger than her.

Covell clacked his tongue. “Isn’t he too old for those ‘I hate you, dad’ fantasies?”

Veers drew in a sharp breath that made his broad shoulders rise visibly. To Kijé it seemed like a threatening gesture.

Amazingly, Covell must have thought the same. “Hm, I apologise, sir. That was uncalled for.”

“Colonel, have you ever known me as someone who’s afraid of harsh truths?” By the snappish tone and the glint in his eyes, it was clear Veers was—perhaps not consciously—trying to pick a fight to vent his anger.

“Never, sir.”

Tantor jumped in to defuse the situation, “Is there anything we can do to help?” He elbowed Laestri. “You too, Sephas.”

Laestri threw his arms up, glass in one hand and fragment of breadstick in the other. “No, no, not me. The general’s son is Navy, you said? Yes? Yes. I babysat a Navy officer for one week during the Khonji Seven uprising. We were stranded in the wild with a local guide I held at blaster point. Behind every corner, Rebels who didn’t take prisoners. That will last me for a lifetime.”

“Moff Varenus,” breathed Kijé. When Laestri leaned over to shoot her a puzzled look, she explained, “Captain Visdei told me. She was on Khonji Seven, too.”

“Did she… _tell_ you? You mean it wasn’t an interrogation?”

“Of course no!”

He narrowed his eyes. “You should have told me she trusts you.”

“Why should she _not_ trust me? If it’s because I am a COMPNOR officer, well, may I remind you that means I’m on _your_ side of the war?”

“Annice, don’t terrorise my staff,” said the general. “Sephas, you are not under investigation, so calm down. I am the nervous wreck here tonight, remember?”

Kijé shrank back in her chair, cradling the empty glass of water in her hands. If only the cold water had frozen up her tongue rather than her teeth…

“I’m calm now, sir,” Laestri declared. “If Atri—if Captain Visdei trusts Miss Propaganda, I trust her too.”

“This, Lieutenant,” Tantor tilted his head and told her with a mock confidential air, “is a fine example of brotherhood borne on the battlefield. Pity it would be tricky to dramatize for propaganda purposes, isn’t it?”

“A pity, yes, sir.”

“How are you planning to dramatize General Veers meeting Lieutenant Veers, anyway?”

“Oh… well, I intend to keep it simple and sober.” Since his gaze lingered on her, that answer was clearly not enough. Dammit. “The set should be a quiet and little-frequented place—the Municipal Library garden, for example. I… was thinking of a military salute, a handshake, and… what the general is most comfortable between a pat on the shoulder or an embrace.” She lacked the courage to look up at him. “Statistically, these are the most common and cross-cultural physical manifestation of affection between Human fathers and sons in the Empire-controlled galaxy. I… I suppose that should be universal enough?”

“Pat on the shoulder, definitely,” spoke up Veers.

“…Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me know.” That simultaneously validated her bantha-shit answer and chose the least awkward option for everyone involved. May the moonbeams of Shiraya’s blessing forever light this man’s path, as Kijé’s grandparents used to wish for every well-mannered Human they met.

“A library, you said? That’s clever. My son likes books.”

“Miss Propaganda, I have a better idea.”

Kijé doubted Major Laestri did have a better idea. She could smell the sarcasm like a burned shaak roast-beef forgotten in the oven. She brazenly made eye contact with Laestri. “ _Si us plau_ , Major, I welcome suggestions.”

Again, appealing to his native tongue made no visible impression on him. “Don’t do this at all. If you want to make something patriotic for the Empire, help out the families of our soldiers who died on Hoth. Do you know how much is the pension for orphans? You can’t buy even one of these,” he waved a breadstick, “with the daily allodial…”

“Allowance,” Tantor suggested.

“Allowance.”

Kijé’s skin crawled. Everything was wrong in Laestri’s words; the cynical discounting of propaganda, the utter ignorance of the different offices in the Imperial service performing different tasks, the insinuation that the Empire didn’t care for its subjects… even his accent. _Have you been exposed to Rebel propaganda, Major?_ The question formed inside her mouth, as sour-tasting and disgusting as wine. But no, she couldn’t ask that anywhere within General Veers’ earshot. He would chase her away. “The Press Corps is not responsible for that,” she muttered instead. “I am simply carrying out my own orders.”

“And _I_ am responsible,” Veers cut in, “for pestering the Pensions Office until they fork out more credits. If they don’t, my failure is as much to blame as the bureaucracy.”

“But they listen to you, sir?”

“Just like Engineering listened to me when I told them AT-ATs need better leg joints protections.”

Covell fingered his moustache and the scars nearby, almost protectively. “Brigia was bad enough. Not all the troopers and crew got off that crash so lightly as a few broken teeth. And now I damn wish those eggheads of Engineering had been on Hoth. Aboard Blizzard 2. Wonder how they would have liked it.”

Veers nodded with a grim look on his face. “So, does anyone have suggestions for the Press Corps?” Tantor shook his head, Laestri waved a hand while chomping bread; nobody spoke. “Very well. You are cleared to proceed, Annice.”

“Thank you, sir.” She wondered if they were afraid of him—they did not seem _afraid_ of Veers; respectful, but not afraid—or of meddling with COMPNOR. It was so fascinating and so uncanny to see these types of men, the bravest of the brave, give hints of fear. Kijé wasn’t comfortable about eliciting such a reaction. Lieutenant-Commander Ardan had been a different matter. She liked the general, and he liked these people; it wasn’t right for him that she upset them. “Now, how would you like me to break the news to Lieutenant Veers?”

In the silence that followed, Kijé wished the music was louder. It would have reduced the awkwardness.

“I would do it,” he said at last, “but that might result in him resigning his commission out of spite.”

“What about not telling him you’re in this thing, sir?” proposed Covell. “The instant he gets there, he’s presented with the fait accompli.”

Tantor shot him an offended look. “Lies are not conducive to healthy family dynamics, Freja.”

“How come they don’t? Had I not lied to my husband about three quarters of the times I nearly got killed in action, he would have divorced me much earlier.”

“I think we need more wine…”

“Annice,” Veers said, “just write Zev a tidy official message. Tell him General Veers is going to be there and we both have peremptory orders to heed the summon.”

“That is, framing it as if _you_ , too, are a victim of the propaganda demands?”

Veers shrugged. “Misery loves company. For example, what do you think Cold Sweat and I would have ever become chums over?”

Kijé blinked.

“The distaste we shared for Admiral Ozzel, of course.”

“…Oh.” Cold Sweat was Piett. It rhymed. That explained certain jokes she had overheard in the _Executor_ ’s corridors (when the jesters had their back turned and didn’t see her thought police uniform approaching, that is).

Laestri flicked a few breadcrumbs off his lips. “Permission to speak ill of Admiral Ozzel, sir?”

“Of course.” Veers allowed himself a smirk, and so did Covell and Tantor. The oldest and most senior in rank among them was forty-six standard years old, the youngest—Laestri—was in his thirties; yet, for an instant they all reverted to mischievous children.

Laestri raised his glass. “A toast to Lord Vader for giving that _fill de Hutt_ what he deserved.”

Kijé didn’t control herself and made a face. Of course she knew the story that circulated about Lord Vader executing Ozzel before the battle of Hoth; in her opinion, it was an evident fake, the kind of thing the crew _wished_ had happened. But everyone at the table joined gleefully in to the toast, and so she did.

Covell ended the toast in a fit of coughing. Ozzel’s revenge from the afterlife, probably. He cleared his throat and whipped the napkin over his mouth and moustache. “Now that we’re in a good mood, sir, permission to express another opinion that may be uncalled for?”

“Fire that grenade, Freja.”

“You’re being too kind to your lad. I’m not saying this as your subordinate, but as a long-time friend.”

“Am I?” Gazing down into the wine, Veers raised the glass almost to his lips. “If the track record is anything to go by, I’ve been quite the opposite.”

“Bah!” Tantor shifted on his seating, pushing it a bit further from the table so he could plant his elbows on it and stare Veers in the eyes. “I know what a bad parent looks, sounds and smells like, sir. Case in point, my mother. She nagged and guilt-tripped my older brother into choosing a career he had never any interest in, and tried to do the same with me when I decided to join the Army. What a bloody nightmare. Not to mention my transition; after eighteen odd years, she insists on calling me Breha.” He spat out the name as if it tasted sour. “Her excuse is, she can never remember my name. Oh, please! It’s Brenn, short and sweet. Is that so hard? On top of it all, it sickens me that Breha is a name associated to the Alderaan royal house. Traitors and scum, the lot of them—and she thought any sane sentient would be glad to bear it.” He sat back with a huff and finished off his wine.

As soon as Tantor put the empty glass back down, Veers parted with the bottle to fill it again.

“Thank you, sir.” The major’s cheeks were red. The wine would only turn them redder.

“You’re welcome. Granted, I don’t think I have been quite _that_ bad as a family man.” Veers added ruefully, “I am still better as an officer, though.”

Covell muttered, “That’s what one ex-husband and one ex-wife said to me. They didn’t mean it as a compliment.” He fidgeted with the collar of his uniform, crumpling it in an awkward-fingered attempt to loosen it. “I’m damn glad to be married to the Army and to the Army alone now.”

“I bet that line of thinking is very good, when it’s actually a choice and not—” Veers smothered a hiccup. “...Not the result of unfortunate circumstances.”

Silence fell over the table, only broken by Laestri munching on what was left of his breadsticks, and filled by the background noise from beyond the screen: tableware, music, chatter. Kijé clung onto it to distract herself from the second-hand embarrassment. Someone behind her asked a waiter if the mineral water was carbonated, before the rest of her question was swallowed by the din.

Veers planted his hands on the table and hauled himself to stand. “Blasted wine. I’ll be back in a moment. Any clue where the ‘fresher is?”

“I think it’s one of the doors at the end of the hall, sir,” offered Tantor.

With the general gone, the conversation among the Army men picked up again, mostly about what the absent members of Veers’ staff were doing with their shore leave at this very moment. Nobody mentioned Admiral Piett, whom Veers had personally originally invited. Maybe it was an Army vs Navy thing, although everyone in the Thundering Herd Kijé talked to viewed the friendship between Veers and the new admiral as a positive development.

Kijé let some time pass, so that her exit didn’t stand at an awkwardly close distance with the general’s, then quietly announced she needed to use the refresher. She tiptoed away to overall indifference. Not that she would have preferred the men to crack menstruation jokes, but none of them so much as turned to acknowledge her departure. She half-expected Laestri to shuffle over and usurp her seat.

She skulked along the wall of the main hall, careful to let the waiters pass first and earning herself a few ‘thank you, ma’am’ for the trouble. The colour palette was relaxing, with white ceilings and blue walls; the only decorations were niches carved into the walls where, encased in levitation glass cylinders, models of ancient starships slowly rotated on their axis. Kijé supposed they meant _this_ as the titular Old Guard. The average age of the officers and (fewer) civilians at the tables, meanwhile, was hardly above forty. Her proper place was among them; not at the table of Veers’ staff, all men old enough to be her late father.

Avoiding looking at the youth around her, she pushed the restroom door open and lurched in. The marble tiles, chrome steel taps, fruity smell of soap, and the plants in pots at the entrance of the room all seemed more welcoming than the entire restaurant thrown together. The partial exception was Veers, but tonight he was distracted. As the archaeology majors at Theed University said, things are always more trustworthy than people. But any theory of history person worth their marks—Kijé entered one of the free stalls, did what must be done, got out and went to wash her hands—could easily remind them that it was _people_ who had made the things; that records could always be tampered with; that misinterpretation was ever present...

As soon as she’d placed her hands under a tap and the warm water had begun flowing, a toilet flushed in another stall. Its door swung open. In the mirror, she saw Veers exit it, look up and spot her. He sauntered next to her, pulled up his sleeves and washed his hands. “Boring conversation so far, isn’t it?”

“No, sir!”

“Oh, yes. And it’s not your fault, sunshine.” He pressed a wet palm to his face, before ripping a tissue from the dispenser and drying himself.

 _Really?_ , she wanted to ask. _Are you sure? Really?_ Over and over for a while, hearing _really, it’s not your fault_ every time. But it wasn’t good form. “I’m not sure what my role is, here, tonight.”

“To enjoy a tasty nerf steak.” Veers checked the tilt of his cap at the mirror.

“In all honesty... Am I allowed to ask a honest question, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not quite sure I get the point of the... earlier conversation. Were you asking your fri—your staff officers for advice? Or... did you just need to vent?”

His cap was at a perfect angle on his head, but he kept pulling it a millimetre back and a millimetre forth. “I just needed to vent. Yes, I suppose we can put it that way.” He tore another tissue off the dispenser and passed it on to Kijé, who only now remembered her hands were still wet and, in fact, dripping water into her sleeves. “Thanks for putting up with my family drivel, by the way.”

“Not drivel at all, sir. If you need anyone to talk to, I—” Dammit, double dammit, was she offering armchair psych help to the Hero of Hoth?

“Never make it public. That is all you can do, and believe me, it’s a lot of help.”

“Of course, sir! I wouldn’t dream of it, sir!”

“Not even if the admiral asks you about it.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Have you finished here?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

Veers held the door open for her. Her instinct would have been a stealthy retreat along the sidelines again, but the general took the most direct path by cutting through the middle of the room; Kijé followed at his heels, a bit dazzled that his courage could extend to such little and inconsequential things. Even the waiters, loaded with plates as they were, halted to let them pass. Neither Veers nor, by extension, Kijé turned, but she could hear the general’s name being whispered at the tables they skirted by.

It was also thanks to her, to her work, that people around the Empire knew General Veers and his deeds. She fixed her eyes affectionately on his huge back, proud of him like she had never been of anyone or anything, not even her few straight A’s in tough classes.

“General! General Veers!”

He ground to a halt, and so did Kijé. They turned at the same time to face a twenty-something in a naval uniform, on her chest a captain’s rank bar so shiny and new that the reflected light it caught could have been used as a blinding weapon. The cap stood at an awkward low angle on her head, but her brown locks were so well-coiffed that not a hair fell onto her forehead. She stood at attention in front of the general. A few meters behind her, there was an empty chair at table of six; all the officers there were gaping at her.

“Captain Ninon Jeskeith, sir,” the newcomer identified herself, radiating joy and perfume from underneath the military mask. “I will soon be taking up a post in Death Squadron.”

Veers returned the pleasantries with a curt bow. “Welcome among the big guns, Captain, in that case. Sadly, Admiral Piett isn’t here tonight, otherwise I would have introduced you.” Maybe it was a trick of Kijé’s imagination, but there was the vaguest hint of irony in Veers’ overly polite tone. Maybe.

“Actually it’s you that I’ve always wanted to meet, sir. My Army staff and I are great admirers of yours.”

Veers stood over ten or fifteen centimetres taller than Captain Jeskeith, and easily peered over her to the men and women at her table. They flinched under his stare, but kept tittering under their breath. Several wine bottles stood at the centre of the table; the unprofessional behaviour had at least one partial excuse.

“Do they work well?” asked Veers, his tone now politely suggesting he was sceptical they did.

“Absolutely, sir. Should they not meet your standards, I’m confident we will either make them better or break them.”

“That is the policy, yes. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Certainly, sir. Just one last thing, if it’s possible.” Jeskeith whipped out a pocket datapad from behind her back. “Might I have your autograph, sir?”

Veers was silent and still for a few seconds. Then he turned to Kijé, and they gawked at each other. Not sure what she was supposed to do or what the general was wordlessly asking her, Kijé quirked her eyebrows towards Jeskeith. What Veers chose to make of that gesture was an extended hand that took Jeskeith’s datapad, while the other unhooked the stylus and scrawled a quick signature on the touchscreen. In his big fist, the stylus seemed as small as a cigarette butt.

He hesitated returning the datapad, and Kijé could steal a look at the screen: a full-sized picture of the general in combat gear. His signature graced the lower part of the image.

“I looked young back then,” Veers said without emotion, handing the device to Jeskeith.

“Seven years ago, sir, right after the third battle of Talasea,” Jeskeith recited with a smile. “Your combined use of SPHAs was a tactical masterpiece.”

“You flatter. Now go back to your shipmates.” He levelled another stare at them, which elicited a fresh wave of flinching, blushing and giggling.

“At once, sir, and thank you. Enjoy your stay on Kuat, sir.” Jeskeith saluted and swaggered back to the table, her boot heels clicking like at a parade. As soon as she sat, arms were flung around her shoulders and the datapad was pried from her hands, making the rounds from one officer’s greedy eyes to the next’s.

Kijé turned to Veers, and the general wasn’t there anymore; he’d quickstepped ahead, this time using the stealthy route along the side of the room. She hurried to catch up, as fast as she could without getting in the way of any waiters or patrons. Back to the safety of the wooden screen, Veers flopped onto his chair with a grunt. “Nine hells. If I had stayed in sight a moment longer, the whole restaurant would have given a toast to my health, including the galley droids.”

“I don’t think they employ galley droids here, sir,” Tantor pointed out, and in the meantime moved Kijé’s chair a little further away so she could ease herself in better. Another full wine bottle had materialised on the table.

Veers was about to retort when the waiters breezed in with the food, a bit early according to tradition; the infantrymen had no qualms about giving a toast to the Empire before tearing into their dishes. Tantor forgot about giving Kijé a taste of his fake Naboo bouillabaisse; after one sideways glance at it, she decided not to remind him.


	9. Chapter 9

Even though the prostitute was awake and whistling in the shower, Zev tiptoed out of her flat in silence, careful not to make the floor creak even after the front door had closed behind him. His way downstairs was a slow stagger; he held himself with one hand onto the wall and the other on the banister.

A soft, dual snoring filled the corridor of the Mazepas’ flat. On the kitchen counter, Petra had left him blue milk, cookies, and a handwritten note wishing him goodnight or good morning, depending on the time he came back.

He lumbered to his room, undressed while scattering his clothes on the floor, and crashed facedown onto the bed. Had he drunk the milk? His mouth tasted like the inside of a boot; no flavour of blue milk was discernible. That was his last thought before falling asleep.

The beeping of his comlink awoke him, that obnoxious noise an Imperial officer was obliged to answer at any time during service hours: the habit soon rubbed on to off-duty time. Squinting in the daylight the window let in, Zev groped for his trousers, extracted the comlink from the pocket it was buried in, and grunted in relief when pressing the answer button shut off the noise. “Lieutenant Veers here,” he spoke gravelly into the device.

A clipped feminine voice replied, with as much friendliness and warmth as a morgue refrigerator, “Lieutenant, I must remind you your presence is required at the main entrance of the Kuat City Municipal Library in seventy standard minutes. This is your final warning.”

“...Who—who are you?” It might very well be the ISB. About to arrest him. Summoning him to... the library? What in the nine hells? Strange place to arrest him. Stranger yet that they would send him a warning. Was he asleep and this conversation nothing but a dream?

“Imperial Press Corps,” the woman added a note of offence to the cold and unfriendly tone.

“I am not in the Press Corps.”

“Lieutenant, you are not allowed to question an order that comes straight from the Ministry of Information. Please carry out the instructions I have just given you. Tardiness is not acceptable and will be punished accordingly.” _Click_.

Zev lay back down on the groove his body had pressed into the mattress. _This is a dream. Wake up. One. Two. Three_. The room stayed the same. His pillow was wet with drool and reeked of unbrushed teeth, of the Pink Nebula, of Sarkli’s tongue sweeping deep into his mouth and of the prostitute’s—what was her name…? Loire, yes.

He whimpered, “Fucking hells,” which he’d meant to growl like the angry, hungover grown-up he was. His throat was parched, his eyes watered, and he touched stubble as he ran a hand over his face. Whatever the Press Corps wanted from him, he would meet them bed-haired and unshaven. He scooped up his crumpled uniform and got dressed; the only item of clothing he had a moral obligation to change were his pants.

His bladder chose the instant after he’d zipped up his trousers to let him know it needed emptying. Once in the bathroom, he couldn’t resist brushing his teeth but stopped himself in the nick of time before smoothing down his hair with one hand. Next stop, the kitchen.

He peeked into the living room on his way; Silas was splayed on his armchair, wrinkly blue hands folded on the quilt that covered his lap, eyes shut and a drooling smile. In the kitchen, the cookies and blue milk had been replaced by a bottle of jogan juice and a tinfoil-wrapped sandwich. Zev’s stomach roiled, but not out of hunger. There was also a new handwritten note:

_Dear Lieutenant Veers,_

_I went out for grocery shopping. Please help yourself for lunch. If you plan on staying for dinner tonight, I will cook you something special! Even if you aren’t hungry, please don’t forget to stay hydrated._

Zev didn’t touch the sandwich, gulped half of the fruit juice in the bottle, and made his silent way out of the apartment. The idea of scribbling a thank-you on the flimsi note, out of basic politeness and to distinguish himself from the average Imperial asshole, didn’t hit him until he was already on the sidewalk, a few paces away from the hovertram stop.

He would buy Petra something nice on his way back. He had to. Hopefully there were enough creds left on his debit card. During the ride to the city centre, he peered at the shops out of the tram window; would a box of chocolates be socially acceptable, or even edible, for an elderly Chagrian lady? Maybe a teapot was better? Surely she already had a teapot; all old ladies did. The tram halted at stop facing a florist’s shop; were Chagrians allergic to flowers?

Next door to the florist’s, there was a café; before the doors closed, the wind blew in a waft of baked goods and grilled meat. The grumble in Zev’s stomach resonated like a gunshot in the empty Galactic Senate hall, and his head swam. Was it lunch time? How long had he slept? He’d forgotten to wear his chrono and didn’t feel like interacting with the other passengers to the point of asking the time.

“Next stop,” the driver announced over the intercom, “Celestials Street. Alight here for the Hego Damask Institute of Statistics, Kuat City Municipal Library—” and so on. Zev leapt to his feet and stumbled to the nearest hatch, holding fast onto a ticket validation box. The dizziness grew worse with the sudden motion, and he was sweating under the synthwool uniform. But to the ninth hell with regrets; if the ISB had called him here to arrest him, he would not be sorry that he’d gotten drunk and laid the night before.

The tram wasn’t stopping yet, so the memories could play out undisturbed. He’d insisted that Loire change back to her Clawdite features. _Aw, thank you, cutie. Are you sure? Okay then. Still good? Great. If I have to multitask and stay shapeshifted, I cannot enjoy the sex very much. It’s distracting. Oh no, don’t worry, it’s not too bad, it’s a job requirement after all. Clawdites like it quite different from Humans anyway. Hmm, you really want me to teach you? Okay…_

That part of the memory stirred a lazy swelling in Zev’s pants.

He remembered himself panting in a haze of endorphins, sweat, sweet-smelling body fluids, thinking aloud that Zeltrons and Twi’leks were overrated. _You Clawdites are the real deal_. Loire had laughed, gave him a few creds’ discount and extorted a promise this wouldn’t be their last fun time together.

The tram stopped, the door swung open, he clumped off the car and into the daylight, adjusting his cap so that the visor shielded his eyes. The sidewalk where he’d just been dropped was lined by hedges about one meter fifty tall, trimmed so evenly that they could have been concrete slabs, had it not been for the dainty white flowers and their fresh smell. Beyond the hedge lay a flowerbed-dotted meadow and, at the centre of the meadow, a columned building proudly flying an Imperial and a Kuati flag in the breeze. Zev peered and squinted until his eyes made out the word LIBRARY on the façade.

His heart became lighter in its cage. If he had to be arrested and sent to die on Kessel, his last sight of the free universe might as well be the only good thing left in the galaxy: books.

Commander Laibach and several of Zev’s classmates, he couldn’t help considering as he walked down the hedge in search of a gateway, would have opted for their preferred sex’s genitalia instead of books. To each their own. Thanks to Loire, he truly had nothing to regret. He was ready to go.

Yet, it was a damn strange arrest method. Were they wary of carrying it out in Alientown? Zev hoped this was the case: it would mean resistance existed, albeit passive, even here in the heart of the Empire. The Press Corps, though… Stupidest cover-up ever. Laibach had taught him to pick a convincing lure, if you had to use one. The more mundane and unsuspicious, the better. The Press Corps might have worked for his father, the golden boy of Army recruitment promo material, in the completely outlandish case the ISB ever wanted to arrest General Maximilian Veers.

Zev laughed to himself, loud and strained enough that a civilian passer-by, a young student type in a school uniform and satchel, gave him a sideways look and quickened his pace to walk past him.

The hedge was endless and it was hot under his uniform; the lazy hint of erection in Zev’s pants softened. Well, he was going to be sent to a place where _looking_ at a jailer was an offence punishable by death through electro-whipping, so proper manners could drop to the ninth hell. Zev opened his tunic, stuck a foot inside the hedge until he felt up a propping point, and jumped over the barrier in a rustle of outraged leaves. The scent of flowers clung to him, and he made his way on the grass constantly waving small insects away. Maybe if one bit him and caused his body another allergic reaction, the ISB wouldn’t let him be treated; it would be a better death than in prison or in a labour camp.

And a worse one than the quick and clean end provided by the suicide pills he had forgotten at home. Again. “Fuck!” He slapped a insect to white paste onto his forearm.

Fuck, but all things considered, he really didn’t want to die. That must be what his hungover subconscious was trying to express.

Soon he reached the portico of the library. The only other being he’d met so far had been a gardener kindly asking him not to tread on the grass and use the footpath. As soon as Zev stepped under the fresh shade, two Human, uniformed figures a few columns down stepped out in full sight.

His father. Him, of all people.

Rage flared up to Zev’s head like rhydonium mixed with Pink Nebula. He wanted to turn and run or to jump his father and punch him in that holoposter face; while the two moral instincts scrambled for dominance, his body did nothing but sweat and wish it could lean against a column.

General Veers stared him up and down like he were the one shabby private of a platoon on the parade ground. Displeasure deepened his frown. “Good day, Lieutenant.”

His jaw clenched. Instead of returning the greeting, he shifted his attention to the officer at Veers’ side. “Wait. You are that girl from the park!” Now sporting a blue uniform with the Press Corps logo on the sleeve, and a frown that tried its comical best to match the general’s. “Alice.”

“Annice,” she spat. “That’s Lieutenant Kijé for you.”

“You also were the chick who pulled me out of bed this morning, weren’t you? You could have been nicer.”

Veers stepped forward between Lieutenant Kijé and him. Close enough that Veers’ bulk forced Zev to tap on a substantial amount of willpower not to back off. “You could have remembered what your mother and your training taught _you_ about not being a rude, disrespectful browbeater, Lieutenant.”

“ _My mother_ would have disapproved of _you_ not even coming home until her funer—”

“You were required to respond immediately to the messages Lieutenant Kijé had sent you. What took you so long?”

Kijé’s frowning face peered from behind Veers. “ _Ten_ messages! I had to ask Naval Intelligence for confirmation that you had not left this planet!”

“What…? For the love of the Goddesses, I was asleep and didn’t check my inbox! I’m still hungover,” Zev glanced at his father, hoping for an outward show of discomfort, “if you really want to know.”

“Fair enough,” Veers said. His face might have been a holographic copy-paste from a propaganda poster, for all its scowling lifelessness. “I assume you don’t know why you and I are here, then?”

“I don’t—sir.”

“The Ministry of Information wants a reel of us meeting again after a long time, for propaganda purposes.”

The sugary taste of jogan fruit juice rose in Zev’s throat. He swallowed it back and croaked, “You can’t be serious.”

Kijé butted in, “The Imperial Press Corps is _always_ serious!”

Zev took a step back, standing lower on his legs and readying himself for a physical fight. He did not expect his father to harm him physically, but it was reassuring to know he was able to hurt him back, just in case. He raised a fist and unclenched an accusing index finger from it, aiming it at Kijé but looking Veers in the eyes. “You outrank her. You are Lord Vader’s pet general, for crying out loud.”

“But I do not outrank the Ministry of Information.”

“So you didn’t even try to refuse!”

“We are not allowed to refuse.” He stepped aside, allowing Kijé to stand in plain sight. “Do everything she says. If you get polemical again, you will be spending the rest of your shore leave in the garrison guardhouse.”

Zev wanted to fight back, but guardhouse meant interrogation. It always did. _They would find out_. “I understand, sir.” He cast his gaze down to Kijé. “I await your orders, Lieutenant.” _I’d blast thirty new holes in you, if I could_.

Kijé pursed her rouged lips. Oh, an Imperial officer who was _not_ tone-deaf? Zev almost whistled in amazement. “Come with me,” she said, and started towards the body scanners at the entrance of the library.

As soon as they were out of Veers’ earshot and queuing under the sensors, Zev whispered to her, “I can come with you all right, blondie.” She flinched. He laughed. “Just don’t keep me waiting for hours, okay?”

With a stiffer gait than just moments ago, she proceeded to the last scanner. As the strip of red light passed down her body from cap to boots, Zev followed it. He forced his gaze to linger on her ass, which gave him no sexual thrill whatsoever. It was the kind of awful thing Commander Laibach would have done. He tore his face away. “Blast, I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t take out my bad mood on—”

The scanner beeped, motioning him forward. Kijé was already gone, strutting into the hall towards a tier of lockers.

Zev missed the Clawdite prostitute. Dealing with her had been so simple and free of drama. Plus, she was not an Imperial. Being kind and friendly to her didn’t make him an accomplice of the regime. No more than he already was by wearing his greys, at least.

The sensor couldn’t read thoughts, so he was cleared for access. He took a few hesitant steps into the hall. Kijé slammed a locker closed; the echo was jarring in the empty room. Aside from the two of them, the only other presences were two librarian droids behind the counter; they were busy with something and didn’t acknowledge the lieutenants’ presence. Zev caught a glimpse of holorecords flickering on and off between the droid’s mechanical fingers. He had always liked libraries, but this one was creepy. The students’ library at the Prefsbelt Academy, for all its only censor-approved books, was crowded at every minute of every hour it stayed open; this was how a library should feel to Zev—crowded. With people and books.

Kijé nipped back to him. She was carrying a briefcase and a hardback book she had pulled out of the locker. “Take this.” She shoved the book in his arms. “Wait here. The general will be outside on the other end of the portico. When I give you a ring over your comlink, walk out. Don’t look at the camera droid or at me, or we will have to reshoot everything. Just try to act natural.”

“And what am I supposed to do with this?” Zev studied the book cover: _The Greater Good Demands It; Padmé Amidala’s Political Legacy In The Early Imperial Era_. Using it as bonfire material would have been the best choice, with Senator Amidala’s ghostly approval. “Hit my father on the head?”

“Hold it like this.” Kijé pried the book from Zev’s hands and stuck under the crook of his arm. “The title must be visible.” While she was there, she took hold of the open flap of Zev’s tunic and buttoned it back up.

He jerked his shoulder away from her hands. “What happens after I walk out? Can I just… leave?”

She finally made eye contact again, to regard him like any good speciesist Naboo would a Gungan. “Are you trying to be funny, Lieutenant? No. You have to stop in front of the general and salute him. He will give you a pat on the shoulder. That is all. If you behave, we might get it done in one take and part ways without further pains.”

“And this will make the rounds all over the HoloNet? It’s for the news, isn’t it?” Zev pictured a whole hangar of battle-hardened Rebel pilots watching that saccharine banthacrap. His mind’s eye sadistically reconstructed the features of Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa in the front row. Sneering, shaking their head. _Like father, like son. Blasted greybacks_. They would never welcome him in their ranks, ever. There was no place in the good cause for children of Imperial war criminals.

Kijé huffed. “I fail to see how being an example of patriotism is a bad thing.”

Zev gripped the book, a cover corner digging into his palm. “Maybe I don’t want to be one.”

“What?”

His own daring honesty made his heartbeat race and his forehead go slick with sweat, icy in the air-conditioned hall. “I… have a private life, okay? My father can run around the galaxy posing for all the holoposters he wants. I just want to keep a low profile, do my job, and… not live in my father’s shadow.” Good Goddesses, that was fucking rich. Not live in his father’s shadow. It’d been a while since his quick-response mechanism to hit at Imperial crud and run had produced such brilliant claptrap.

“Lieutenant, people are giving up their lives and all they hold dear for the Empire, every day. Giving up a few standard minutes of your time for a good cause doesn’t seem like a big sacrifice to me.” Kijé spun on her heels and, with another, louder huff, stomped out of the gate. The scanners all beeped in unison.

When the outer doors slid open, Zev’s eyes met Veers’ for a split second: the general was staring in the gate’s direction and tugging at a sleeve of his uniform. Zev abruptly looked away, just in time—he hoped—for Veers to notice before the doors closed. Fuck him and his kicked puppy look. The more Veers strove to elicit his mercy, the more disgust he provoked.

Even not being here because the ISB was on the hunt for him now felt like a disappointment. There was glory in suffering and dying at the hand of the Empire. Sure, not dying and not suffering at all would have been better, but it wasn’t like the Rebels had any choice. Certain of his rightness, he would face the IT-O droid with a smile until the pain was too great.

Maybe the revelation of his betrayal would cripple his father’s career. For sure it would hurt him on a personal level. Maybe he would pull a brave face in public and, once he was alone in his quarters, eat a blaster...

That was all so silly. Veers had not done that when mom had died. Why should he now? Zev sighed and picked at the fabric of shirt and tunic that stuck to his sweaty armpit.

None of that was coming to pass. Instead, the Empire was turning him into a propaganda puppet, just like the book under his arm proved the Empire had done to Senator Amidala. The one crucial difference was that she was dead. She could not oppose this use—this _abuse_ of her legacy. He, on the other end, was too spineless to refuse, to fight back, to walk away. Even that simple act of resistance lay beyond his power.

His face scrunched up and he struggled to keep his lips from quivering. The comlink in his pocket beeped. Zev wiped the wetness from his eyes and hoofed it through the tier of scanners.

The doors let him out into the portico with its gentle breeze blowing in the scent of grass. Zev saw his father; his steps faltered to a halt, while Veers strode across the distance between them and stopped a pace away from him. Not a trace of contrition remained on his stony face.

Zev stiffened into a salute. So did the general. Zev heard the soft whirr of the camera droid hovering closer. After returning the salute, Veers patted his right shoulder and Zev made the effort not to wince. The touch was barely perceptible at first, then the grip tightened. Before Zev could react, he was pulled into Veers’ strong arms and pressed against his chest.

He stood frozen, too shocked to breathe, all the hair standing on his arms and on the back of his neck.

Veers let out a sob—a _sob_ , honest to the Goddesses—and held him tighter, dropping his head on Zev’s shoulder. In his apnoea, Zev felt like this moment lasted several excruciating seconds.

The thud of the book falling to the ground broke the spell.

Zev tore himself out of the embrace. Veers gaped at him for an instant, his arms still open and empty; that fucking kicked puppy look, again. Zev bent and picked up the book; he wanted to slam it on his father’s head until it drew blood.

He turned to Kijé, who was ogling behind a hand-held camera. “Shall I return this one to the library?”

Kijé hurriedly switched off the camera and remote-controlled the droid back to her. “Oh, no, no. I’ve borrowed it. Give it to me.” She tucked the book inside the suitcase, together with the press apparatus.

To avoid looking in his father’s direction, Zev turned towards the garden. Grass, flower beds, Captain Sarkli waving hello, the gardener trudging towards a far-off flower-bed. “Am I allowed to leave now—” Captain Sarkli. Waving hello. Sashaying down the footpath and up the portico steps. A grin on his face. Watching Zev as Zev watched him.

“Sorry  I keptcha waitin’, Kijé,” he said. Flitting smiling glances at Zev every moment. “Yer done filmin’ yet?”

“...You must be Captain Sarkli of the Naval Intelligence Agency, I presume?” Kijé said like she didn’t believe her own words and her own eyes.

“Aye, that’d be me.”

“Who in the nine wet hells are you?” Veers growled. For once, Zev was glad his father was here.

Sarkli threw his arms up, the smile replaced by an expression of annoyance and defiance that would have more befitted a street thug surrendering to the law enforcement of some Outer Rim shithole. “Captain Sarkli, sir,” he made a decent effort at a clean accent. “Naval Intelligence, sir. I’m not doin’ nothin’ that was not authorised by my superiors, sir. You can cross-check with ‘em anytime.”

“That is correct, General,” Kijé chimed in to placate General Veers’ fury with her silvery voice and pathetically naive heart. “Captain Sarkli got back to me immediately after I contacted Naval Intelligence about Lieutenant Veers’ whereabouts. It... seems he is under orders to review the footage?”

“Word, I am!” Sarkli unhooked a holomemory stick from his belt and rolled it in his palm like a gunslinger in a pulp holoflick.

“I will ask you once and not repeat this question again, Captain.” Veers moved in front of him, making the most of the ten-centimetres height difference between him and the obdurately cheerful NavIntel man. “What do you have to do with my son?”

Zev’s face fell. What if Sarkli told his father about last night at the Desert Rose?

“Well, sir, Lieutenant Veers was the first to come an’ see the disaster at the spaceport yesterday. That puts in him on a... kinda red list. Ye know.”

“No. I do not know.” Veers’ tone and glare would have frozen any remaining life form on Hoth, not one wampa to be saved. “My son has nothing at all to do with your accident.”

Zev fought to suppress a fit of hysterical laughter.

“’Twasn’t an accident, sir, ‘twas a desertion attempt.” Sarkli put his arms akimbo and puffed up his chest. “Yer lookin’ at the man who stopped it.”

“Hey, that was supposed to remain classified!” Kijé burst out, which earned her a puzzled look from Veers.

“Nothing’s classified for the investigator,” Sarkli retorted, so full of himself that Zev wished to poke him and watch him deflate. Poke him with a vibroblade. In a vital target on his body.

“Are you implying _my son_ is a deserter?” Veers raised a clenched fist.

This was a good time for wheeling about and running like hell. The best approximation of that evasive manoeuvre Zev could attain was inching backwards until he had a column behind him; it trapped him and steadied him at the same time. _Just try to act natural_. He crossed his ankles and slipped his hands in his pockets.

Sarkli didn’t seem intimidated in the least. “Quite the contrary, sir. I want to make sure he’s not bein’ targeted. Some of the deserters were friends of his from the academy, y’see.”

Veers shook his head and glanced at Zev. “You had friends at the academy?”

“Why, is that any of your business?”

“You never told me any of this before.” Veers returned his attention to Sarkli, now with more apprehension than rage. “Did anyone try to harm him?”

“Naw, sir, I’m happy to say. But just in case, I’ll be keepin’ an eye on your lad. Fact is, all the deserters were killed in the blast, ‘cept for one who wasn’t there at all. They may get back at me, an’ nobody would weep for me too bad.” He laughed. “Or they may try to get back at Lieutenant Veers. Y’never know with the Rebels. Grudge-bearin’ bastards near as bad as Mandos.”

“You do have a point,” Veers muttered. “Do whatever you came here for, then.”

“Aye, sir. Lieutenant Kijé, if you could be a dearie...”

She had already removed the memory slot from the camera unit; the open suitcase, with the deactivated droid and the borrowed book, lay between her boots. Sarkli flicked a switch on the memory stick and within a few seconds a green light signalled a successful wireless transfer.

“Why do you need this stuff, anyway?” Zev couldn’t help asking. “Soon enough, the whole blasted galaxy will see that reel.” He glowered at his father to make the accusation extra clear. “Couldn’t you just turn on the HoloNet and wait up one day?”

Something changed in Sarkli’s everlasting smile; eyes a bit narrower, the curl of his lips a bit more upward and baring less teeth. Zev tried to match that expression with what he confusedly remembered of the previous night in the bar restroom. He couldn’t piece a coherent picture together, but a disgusted gut feeling told him that had been Sarkli’s face while he touched him.

“Spy privilege, bukee. We like seein’ stuff before everyone else an’ their treason-minded stormtrooper bonnie lasses get their dirty paws on it.”

“Uh, what?” Treason was an ever-present subtext, but had they discussed stormtroopers or sexual preferences at all over their drinks? Zev blinked in confusion.

“How in the nine hells do you know—” “You _know_ about that incident?” Veers and Kijé blurted out at the same time.

“What incident?” Zev asked. Whatever upset General Veers was of interest to him.

Sarkli shrugged. “Ain’t too clear. Some sleemo junior officer tried to wring a promotion outta Admiral Piett’s hands an’ didn’t realise he was bein’ played for a fool by his lover—some stormie who wanted to pass on intel to the Rebellion.” He shook his head, laughing. “Hah, poor sod... Shoulda know better ‘n start poodoo with uncle Fir.”

“Lieutenant,” Veers said through gritted teeth, “mind your language when you speak of your superiors.”

“I called him uncle ‘cos he _is_ me uncle! Firmus Piett, of Axxila!” Since Veers was struck dumb, he added, “You have to know him. He flies the ship yer stationed on. An’ he outranks you.”

“I do know him well, Lieutenant.” Veers recovered all his lack of emotion. “This is why I find it hard to believe you two are related.”

“Ahh, you do indeed know him well then, don’t you?”

Veers shifted from one foot to the other, staring and saying nothing.

“I tried to say hi yest’day, but uncle Fir got in a bit of a hurry to haul arse... heh, sorry, a hurry to leave the spaceport, soon as he recognised me. Well, I reckon yer all keen to leave too—”

“Wait. So, you are the admiral’s nephew?”

“Aye.”

“His sister’s son?”

Sarkli’s eyes widened. “He talked to you ‘bout me mother?”

“Not in great detail. I seem to understand he was never fond of Axxila in the first place.”

“Naw, never. Not fond of home, an’ no family man. Sure, I was no easy bukee to handle, an’ a couple times his stormies swept in at a speeder bike race an’ I got arrested along with me bad friends... But it’s all in the past, aye?” Sarkli tapped his fingers on the shiny rank badge pinned to his tunic. “Heh, I remember uncle Fir standin’ in front o’ the ‘fresher mirror an’ repeatin’ o’er an’ o’er in our awful Rimworld accent, _Ah am an offishuh o’ the G’lactic Empire_ , until he got the words right. With time an’ practise, he got to sound like a perfect Coruscanti.”

Veers’ mouth was the first part of his face to break ranks. He tried to dam the laughter under the palm of one hand, but it boomed out nonetheless. An unexplainable dismay washed over Zev, the shameful and petty jealousy of an unhappy person bearing witness to someone else’s joy: there it was, General Veers in good humour. Zev’s presence couldn’t keep him upset for long. Further proof of how deeply hypocritical this man was.

“Oi, oi,” Sarkli crept his way into the general’s hilarity, “if you tell that one at the officers’ mess table, please don’tcha make me name. Uncle Fir might have me sent shovellin’ spice on Kessel for real this time.”

“You mean, he threatened you to...? Heh. Of course he would.” Veers’ smile faded into a bitterer, less bright version. “Your secret is safe with me, Lieutenant. It’s not that Piett and I are so... intimate, anyway.”

Sarkli huffed. “Uncle Fir only gets intimate wi’ whores, last time I checked.”

The corner of Veers’ lip twitched.

“An’ like, intimate _intimate_ , not in the sense o’, y’know... talkin’. He ain’t one for chums, is all. But he’s a fine admiral, aye?”

“The best Death Squadron has ever had.”

Zev rolled his eyes. “Of course he’s the best, because he’s the _only_ good admiral of Death Squadron thus far. Have you _seen_ Admiral Ozzel’s service record?”

Veers shot him a glare. Pissed off at having his fun ruined, what else? That slightly improved Zev’s morale.

“I _was_ there,” Veers said flatly, “when Ozzel did the banthacrap you _read_ about in his record.”

Nice try. But Zev was not impressed. “Did you know his incompetence spurred an intelligence investigation? They couldn’t believe he was not helping the Rebellion deliberately by trying to disrupt the Imperial Navy from within!” In other words: even the defunct laughing stock of the Navy had more Rebel credentials than Lieutenant Zevulon Veers. Fuck.

“A legitimate concern,” was Veers’ diplomatic answer.

In a suitably feeble voice, Kijé reminded everyone of her pointless existence, “Is this true, General?”

“I don’t know, but it’s plausible. And the fact that it’s plausible is terrifying, in and of itself.”

“General, may... may I ask if it’s also true that Lord Vader... was directly involved with the circumstances of Ozzel’s demise?”

“Throttled him over the videocomm a minute after he ordered me to launch a surface attack. I’d just set foot out of Lord Vader’s quarters.”

Zev was about to sneer at the long-winded politically correct wording Kijé had used, but the mention of Vader was like being hit by a gust of Denoni winter wind, the icy rain and snow it carried all blown in your face, at the height of a summer day. His skin crawled and he regarded Veers with rekindled revulsion. Here was a man who could sob as he hugged his son, and not bat an eyelash when Lord Vader slaughtered sentients in front of him. Veers’ job was to aid Vader do just that, in fact. And he talked about it so casually, smirking at Kijé’s jaw-hanging, wide-eyed shock.

Stars, he had turned it into a children’s tale once. More than once—Zev bit the inside of his cheek; he didn’t want to remember. Mom didn’t like it. He was sure she didn’t like it. That was why she always—almost always—retreated to another room when dad... when Veers told his stupid, naive little son a war story.

Zev’s eyes scanned the general from boots to cap badge, alert to physical signs of the aberration this man carried in his soul. There were none. As healthy and strong and fine-looking as a droid fresh off the factory. Just a little blush on his space-pale face, a glint of sweat on his brow. Eventually, Veers noticed him staring. His sardonic, haughty smile faded. “Zev, are you alright?”

The familiar tone and the caring question grated on Zev’s nerves. He straightened up, hands behind his back, standard Imperial appearance. “Yes, sir. I am fine and am awaiting permission to leave, sir.” The subtext was: _It’s your fault for not letting me go earlier, you son of a Hutt_. His father gave out signs that he’d gotten that part of the message—blinking, upper body posture going a bit more rigid. “I suppose you are free to go, Lieutenant. Unless the Press Corps or Naval Intelligence think otherwise?”

Kijé shook her head. “No objection at all, sir.”  She made a pouty face at Zev, and he half-expected her to stick her tongue out. Taking advantage of the moment Veers turned to Sarkli, Zev stuck his tongue out at her. It was so quick it must have seemed like something sexual rather than mocking, and kriff if he cared. Her pout darkened.

“Oi, bukee?”

Zev flinched.

Sarkli’s face was serious. “Next time, I ain’t lettin’ ye buy anythin’ but alcohol-free drinks.”

“Do I want to know the context of this statement?” Veers asked Sarkli. Sarkli, not Zev. Fuck, what was this guts wrench now, a fit of jealousy? _Jealousy_?

Sarkli eyed Zev. Fishing for complicity? An indication on what to reveal? A veiled threat or a challenge? Zev riposted with his smuggest smile and spoke loudly over whatever dismissive cover-up story Sarkli was about to feed Veers, “Captain Sarkli was so kind as to buy me a drink last night.” To fire or not to fire the proton torpedo up the Death Star’s exhaust port? He grinned so broadly that his lips, a bit chapped from sunlight exposure, pulled and ached. _Fire_. “Then he tried to seduce me in the restroom.”

Veers’ nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. (Ah yes, among all the bad things Zev had his father to thank for, there was the ugly nose. _Thanks for the reminder, dad_.)

“But why?” Kijé asked, and then stuttered, “Well, I... I am hard-pressed to find a reason. Lieutenant Veers is... has not been a pleasant person to interact with, to me.”

“Ah, same here, Lieutenant,” said Sarkli, without missing a beat. “You see, General, he ordered a Pink Nebula an’ had naw idea what that means!”

“ _I_ do know what ordering that drink is coded for,” Veers said, unsmiling but not angry. “You Navy people are incorrigible.”

The exhilaration drained out of Zev’s heart, as quickly as it had filled it.

“Well, he didn’t know it.” Sarkli cast Zev an accusing, outraged look. “What the kriff do they teach ‘em young folks on Prefsbelt? I’d learned it way long ‘fore I even went for a greyback!”

Zev wished that didn’t made him blush, as the skin of his cheeks caught fire. He rubbed a hand over them, in a vain effort to soothe the sensation away that probably made him look even more bashful. Thank the Goddesses his father’s stern attention was not on him.

“I trust,” said Veers in a flat tone of warning, “that as soon as my son made it clear he wasn’t interested, you let him be?”

“Aye, sir! Me mum didnae raise me to be a tapcaf dianoga.” It was pleasant to observe Sarkli hunch his shoulder and back off a bit from Veers.

“Is that true, Zev?”

Zev watched Sarkli squirm for a few more seconds. A wonderful shadow of fear wrinkled up the NavIntel man’s face, his eyes getting larger with dawning confusion, a tiny tilt of his head as if he wanted to say no.

Just when the silence began to feel awkward, Zev answered airily, “Yessir, it’s all true. I explained I’m not into men, we cleared up the misunderstanding, and parted on friendly terms.”

His father nodded, and his rigid stance relaxed a barely perceptible bit. Stars, but Veers would be pretty easy to read, if he were put under one of the interrogations Commander Laibach had made Zev participate in.

“Oh,” Kijé grumbled, “I cannot imagine his idea of _friendly_ terms.”

Zev almost called her a bitch aloud, but some training-induced nonsense about the presence of a general made him bite his tongue. He did expect Veers to defend him against Kijé’s accusations, still; it was morbidly amusing to witness that fatherly protectiveness, and even more so to scorn it and bask in the hurt it appeared to cause. Veers deserved to be hurt, for what he had done to Zev’s life and for his role in upholding tyranny. If there was a chunk of heart left under his durasteel hull, Zev was hell-bent on bayoneting it until it was bled dry.

Yet, Veers seemed mildly annoyed at worst. He sighed through his nose again, with that irritating hiss, and regarded his disastrous officer son like Zev had once seen a chief engineer glare at a piece of machinery before deeming it broken beyond repair.

Sarkli looked aside with a half-smile on his face.

“Go now, Lieutenant.” Veers drew himself up into a saluting stance. “And don’t get yourself in trouble.” The father in him suggested the general to add, “In any case, I wish you a pleasant day.” The officerly tone annihilated every hint of tenderness and care in the wish. Just like it had always done, in each and every aspect of Veers’ life as far as Zev was concerned.

Zev saluted back. “The same to you, sir.” He left it hanging whether he meant not getting in trouble or having a pleasant day or both things. Veers got it. He reacted. A twitch at the corner of one eye, but a reaction nonetheless.

Satisfied with that minimal revenge, Zev took his formal leave from pouting Kijé and winking— _winking_ , what in blazes?—Sarkli, and started his way back across the sunlit garden.


	10. Chapter 10

As he watched his son traverse the garden back up the way he’d prowled in—the gait was military only in the length of the paces; the rest of Zev’s posture was too forward-leaning, too hunched, the arms too dangly—Veers wanted to do one thing: leap out of the portico shade, fill in a few strides the distance between them, and hold Zev to himself for as long as he could.

It was a matter of few paces; they felt like parsecs. No distance he could cross with his own feet. Hell, not even with the long legs of an AT-AT, or with the full thrust of the _Executor_ ’s engines.

So he stood there and watched Zev go, until the footpath bent leftwards and Veers lost visual contact. Captain Sarkli had been chattering to Kijé all the while. The instant the general turned, both junior officers quieted down and straightened up.

“Is there anything else,” Veers said, “that requires my presence here, Annice?” Said, not asked. He wanted to go away, and wanted it so badly that his tongue had slipped and he’d used her first name.

“No... nothing at all, sir.”

“Have a good day, then.” He eyed Sarkli. “You too, Captain.” Without thinking, he added, “Shall I say hello to your uncle for you?”

“That depends if ye wanna get on uncle Fir’s nerves or naw, sir.”

Was it a good idea to leave this chap alone with Kijé? She remained silent, but her eyes, fixed on Sarkli rather than on Veers, were bright with contained amusement. Blast it. Let the twenty-years-olds be twenty-years-olds.

“Alright. Just keep one thing in mind, Captain.”

“Aye?”

“If you’re mean to her, I will sic your uncle on you.” Veers tilted his head in the informal salute from superior to subaltern; the subalterns in questions clicked their heels and held up the right hand to the cap visor in perfect synchronism.

The instant Veers had his back turned to Sarkli and Kijé, his mind wandered off. Right into a minefield, just as his boots trod on the safest gravel he’d ever stepped on in years. Back to Zev.

Now that he was grown, he resembled his mother so much that it hurt Max Veers to look at him. Likewise it hurt _General_ Veers to take in the dishevelled shape the lad kept himself in, coupled with manners that would have landed any other cheeky lieutenant into the nearest guardhouse.

Veers kicked up a hail of pebbles with the point of one foot. He had always abhorred spoilt brats for whom serving the Empire amounted to showing off in a pretty uniform, and could count on their powerful connections to bail them out of any trouble. Zev, _his_ Zev, was turning into one of them. And it was his fault. Worst of all, there was nothing he could do to save the situation. If the academy couldn’t fix him, the boy was beyond redemption.

He jerked his head in the warm air, with much more verve than was necessary to shake small insects away. He’d felt the revulsion in Zev’s body as he embraced him. The way he stood frozen and held his breath. At that moment the realisation had made him almost burst into tears, and now the memory made his steps falter and turned the bones of his arms into heavy duracrete. Despite the sunlight, Veers was cold and trembling. If Zev had pulled away at once, if he had growled that he didn’t wish to be touched _ever_ by him, it would have hurt less.

But the words hadn’t been necessary. Veers had read the signs. He had ignored them. A level of idiocy to match the late Admiral Ozzel’s dismissal of the probe droid report from Hoth. To surpass it, even: Ozzel had been wrong in good faith; Veers had been wrong—or rather, had wronged Zev—deliberately.

He had to fight a shame-borne impulse to throw himself on the gravel and hide his face in the pebbles, mashing it to blood. Damn it, damn himself for being so weak and so starved for an affection his son would never return—with blasted good reason. Damn himself to the ninth hell for still wanting to hold Zev in his arms, in spite of everything, even of the boy’s aversion. There was no way to make things good again, like they used to be in the golden shore leaves before Eli died. No way to make peace. It was like the Empire wanting to make peace with the Rebellion: you could reason all you wished, those people would not listen.

Thank the stars, he had reached the end of the garden. The hedge gave way to a wrought iron gate, through whose bars he could see his parked speeder and the NCO driver polishing its chassis with a rag. The woman saluted him as he approached the vehicle, and by the time Veers had flopped onto the backseat, she had already slipped onto the driver’s seat and started up the engine. Remarkable. Driving senior officers around was the closest thing to action the Kuat garrison soldiers saw, so it made sense they were speedy and efficient at it.

“Back to my lodgings,” he ordered. A few centimetres of window were down, and he pressed the button to close it off. The glass was slightly opaque; he hoped it was enough to shade his face and obscure it from the outside. The last thing he wanted now were more Captain Jeskeiths recognising the Hero of Hoth and stopping him for an autograph at every traffic light.

His shoulder muscles grew stiff and aching throughout the speeder ride. He was about to tell the driver to halt at a pharmacy before the tension climbed up to his head and caused him a migraine, but then he remembered Piett always carried a few packs of prescriptions around. And a few packs of cigarettes, which the admiral insisted were part of the prescriptions.

Precisely the excuse Veers needed to ring the bell of Piett’s apartment rather than open the door of his own. After ringing, he leaned against the door and listened: shuffling feet, a clearing throat, the steps coming closer then stopping. Silence.

“I know you’re right behind this door!” Veers’ voice boomed across the stairwell. Before he could worsen the embarrassment as he was prepared to do, Piett opened the door.

Veers had not expected to win this siege so quickly. Nor had he expected to face an unshaven, squinting admiral in ruffled bed hair, pyjama shirt, socks and shorts. “Good morning, General,” he drawled.

“Morning! Firmus, it’s early afternoon in local hour.”

“But is it morning in Imperial Standard Time?”

Veers sighed, and made to enter. Piett moved away without a syllable of protest, and the door slid closed.

“I trust you slept well, at least? Without me keeping you awake.”

Piett’s gaze was tired, but the emotion underneath unreadable. “ _Paperwork_ kept me awake. I think I prefer it when you are the reason for my lost sleeping hours, General.” A smirk curled up the corners of his mouth. At least with him, peace was possible.

Veers sauntered towards the bedroom. He did hear Piett weakly trying to stop him, “Wait, Max, no... it’s a mess in there...” and went on.

The bed was indeed a mess, though better than the admiral’s bed on the _Executor_ after their night cycle tumbles; there were no semen stains on this one. Stepping closer, Veers saw a portable video player half-buried in the bedcovers; he brushed them aside and was treated to a freeze-frame on the screen of two holomovie stars staring at each other’s lips with tears in their eyes and skimpy slave costumes, showing shapely pecs and tits.

“Firmus, you’ve been watching this crap?”

Piett padded over, snatched the holoprojector, shut it off and buried the shame inside a drawer. “I was only watching it for the gratuitous nude scenes.”

In the meantime, Veers’ surroundings-assessing gaze had moved on to the side of the bed, taking in the full ashtray on the chest of drawers by the lamp, and the empty tub of ice cream, spoon still inside, that had rolled off on the floor at the bedside. He held up the tub to Piett with a triumphant grin. “I don’t know about you sailors, but in the Army _this_ is not how we do paperwork.”

“Congratulations, General, you have sniffed out my pathetic lie.” Piett took the tub from Veers’ hands, grabbed the spoon and gathered the few chocolate chips left at the bottom of the tub. “How shall I reward you?”

Veers considered a trip to the nearest ice cream parlour, but he wasn’t that much in the mood for teasing. He sat on the bed. “Come here.”

Piett put down the tub and the now-clean spoon, and parked his warm arse on Veers’ lap. He didn’t wrap his arms around Veers, but leaned on him, his face in the crook of Veers’ neck where the cold tip of his nose and the soft blow of his breath tickled skin just above the uniform collar.

For a few seconds, Veers let his eyes drop and was still, savouring the warmth and the contact of someone else wanting him, of their own accord. Almost shyly, he placed his hands around Piett’s waist. Through the cotton pyjamas and his own gloves, he felt the band of the other man’s shorts and the hard angle of the iliac crest.

“So, how was dinner?” Piett asked in a soft voice. “Shall you take me out to that restaurant?”

“That’ll sooner be the cheapest tapcaf I can find here, sailor. No nerf steak is worth a thousand credit bill.”

“Sweet stars.”

“Indeed.” It had been the wine’s fault. An unexplainable modesty kept him from telling Piett. “A Navy officer asked for my autograph.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Piett chuckled. “I will write to their CO and have them radiated from the service.”

“ _You_ are her CO. She said she’s about to join Death Squadron.”

“Am I?”

“One Captain Jeskeith—”

“Ah, yes, yes. The captain of the _Bulwark_ , yes.” Piett shifted, and Veers instinctively grabbed him tighter so that he wouldn’t escape; he relaxed his hold at once, feeling stupid. “I don’t know much about Captain Jeskeith except for her brilliant academy scores,” continued Piett, undisturbed and unmoving. “But I have seen the _Bulwark_ , up in the shipyards.”

“A fine and beautiful ship, yes?” Veers couldn’t help pouring a hint of mockery in his tone.

“Yes. By all means. This planet is amazing.”

“If you say so...” Veers lifted him and rolled him to lie flat on his back onto the jumble of bedcovers. “Do you know what _I_ find amazing?”

“AT-ATs.”

Sometimes it was so difficult to tell whether Piett was too into his admiral’s rank for his own good, or just played on this assumption to mess with his favourite dumb dirt-pounder.  Either way, Veers laughed softly and stood over him on all fours. “That you love me, sailor.” He closed his eyes and bent his head. The kiss was not aimed at the lips, that would taste like a quite unappealing mixture of chocolate and tobacco; instead, they brushed and lingered on the thin skin of Piett’s forehead.

“I... yes, likewise,” Piett muttered, “I quite enjoy making love to you, dear.”

At the very first, Veers wanted to laugh. But before the mirth had made it to his vocal chords, it had died off, replaced by a cutting hurt. The more he replayed the words in his mind, the deeper the cut went.

He pulled himself up on his knees, staring down at the other man who, in his turn, propped himself up on his elbows. Piett blinked his bedroom eyes away and frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“It isn’t the same thing, you know?”

“Pardon me?”

“Loving and making—never mind.”

“Oh, Max!” Piett gave him one of his galaxy-weary looks from when Ozzel said something daft and was not paying attention to the captain. “Do you suppose I would let you into my pants every night if there were no grounds for it?”

“Grounds.”

“Yes.” Under Veers’ stare, he swallowed and explained, “Trust. Attachment. Esteem. Pure lust.”

“And I should be content with this?”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but we both are a tad old for,” he grimaced, “mushy declarations of undying love. Didn’t you and your wife have enough of them to last for a few lifetimes?”

Veers sucked in breath to retort, but no words came to him. Incredulity added to the earlier hurt. “I don’t want you to speak of my wife, Firmus.” Perhaps this was for the good, it sounded less angry and more plaintive than he’d meant.

“I have no wish to do so, as you know.”

“Yes, yes, you’re jealous, I can tell.”

“Max, for stars’ sake... Do you honestly believe I would lower myself to...?”

Veers sighed, took off his cap, threw it on the chest of drawers at the bedside, and ran a hand through his hair. His shoulders were stiff and a cold sweat had started to bead his forehead. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“You do, berk. I just told you!” Piett stretched out an arm and rubbed the back of his hand on the inside of Veers’ thigh, until his fingertips reached the groin. “Why would I need to be jealous, anyway?”

Within a few caresses, the deep circular motions made Veers feel snug in his pants and trousers. His head lolled onto his shoulder, his eyelids grew heavy. What if he just relaxed into the touch? No anger, no bitterness, no thoughts at all... “I just had to meet my son again, you know.”

Piett slowed to a halt. Not a sudden halt, but the motions stopped after a complete revolution. “That propaganda nonsense Kijé mentioned?”

“And what else? Are you under the impression we’d meet for caf and an amiable chat? Zev was mad at me to begin with, and I... I have been a complete tosspot and made everything worse.” He lay down on the bed, next to Piett. The bedsheets smelled new, but with a blend of cigarette smoke and laundry soap. This laundry soap in particular smelled like a forest Veers had once fought during a campaign on Cholganna; his nose itched and the skin of his arms crawled at the memory. “Why aren’t you asking me how I made everything worse?”

“Because I would rather not know.”

 _Son of a Hutt_.

A long silence settled in, hanging as low and suffocating as the smell. Piett’s breathing was annoyingly regular, as if he were about to fall asleep. Veers wouldn’t put it past him. Well, he should never have expected tenderness from the same man who had seduced him when he was fresh off a battlefield and physically wounded. Why would a wound of the heart be anything different to Piett?

Unless it was inflicted upon _him_.

It was cruel, but Veers grinned. “I’ve met your nephew as well. Captain Haidar Sarkli.” Piett held his breath. Good. An attack to press on. “Naval Intelligence. Speaks in the same accent you slip into when I heat up your engines for a hyperspace jump—”

“Knock it off!” Piett exhaled the open emotion in a puff and retreated behind his usual apparent calm, “Whatever he has said and done, I apologise for his behaviour.”

“No need to apologise at all. I’m curious, though—is it true that, in order to get rid of your delightful Rimworlder accent, you would stare at yourself in the mirror and repeat _I am an officer of the Imperial Navy_ until—”

Piett jumped like he’d been stabbed with a force pike. The bare-fanged glare he fixed on the other man was so fierce that, by reflex, Veers tensed his muscles for a struggle. Then his rational brain slapped the fighter’s brain back into place. Piett would never harm him. Not in this way.

“General, for your sake,” Piett grimaced at every word he spat out, “never mention _this_ again. Neither to me, nor to anyone else. If you do, I swear to the stars I will...” His voice and his rage both trailed off.

“Firmus,” Veers replied coolly, “for our mutual sakes, I suggest you think very, very carefully before you threaten me.”

“I wasn’t going to threaten _you_ , you blasted...” Piett narrowed his eyes, the fury on his face softening into something more doleful. “Did you really suppose I was going to threaten you? Do you think I could do it?”

“Oh, Admiral, it wouldn’t be the toughest task you ever undertook in your career, would it?”

Silence. Then a sorrowful whisper, “No, it wouldn’t.” Piett swallowed hard and glanced left and right, blinking.

Veers sat up with an elbow on the mattress and braced himself for a sad story.

Disappointment sank in him like a stone in water as Piett rose, stripped himself of his shirt, shook it and folded it, then mumbled, “Excuse me,” and stalked off to the bathroom. All this without a look in Veers’ direction.

Still sitting on the bedside, Veers listened to the faint rushing and flushing of water, and nursed a feeling of injustice not unlike the pang of gazing at the other cadets prancing out of the academy for their weekend pass. He, seventeen standard years old, was stuck studying to earn his record-breaking grades. So bloody daft of him to always pick a library seat by the panoramic windows. It had been so long ago, and he had taught himself discipline so well, that the flashback puzzled him; had that lad really been him?

After he’d graduated and married Eliana, he had thought he was vindicated. It had all been worth it. It would be worth everything that was going to come later. And now?

He balled up his fists on his knees, letting anger pour through him with the warmth and intoxication of a shot of grog. He stomped over to stand in front of the bathroom door, kicking up rugs along the way.

The footfall noise worked. Piett slid half the door open and peered out, his chin and cheeks covered in soap. “Max, please. Not another scene.”

“ _Another_?”

“Yesterday on the terrace, dear. That was deplorable enough.”

“Yes, it was. And I am not sorry. Where are you going now—” He reached out to seize Piett’s arm, but the other man dodged his grip and returned to the sink.

“I can listen to you being a berk even while I’m shaving,” said Piett, picking up the razor and resuming the work he’d just begun.

“And I thought Lord Vader’s mood swings were bad.”

The razor skidded to a halt on Piett’s chin, then carried on with its measured, gentle strokes. A trickle of blood stained the white soap. Veers’ first instinct was to tell him, or hand him a towel, but he let the feeling pass; instead, he crossed his arms and leaned against the door jamb. A sensor picked up his presence and the door automatically slid completely open, allowing Veers to accommodate his bulk into the frame. He caught Piett’s eyes slanting glances at him in the mirror.

“Am I embarrassing you, Firmus?”

“No. You have seen me more naked and more drunk than this.”

Veers didn’t offer even a trace of smile at the jest. “With my... personal matters, I mean.”

The razor lingered, then carefully removed the soap above Piett’s upper lip. “You have a right to a private life.”

“You’re part of my private life. A sizable part of it.”

Lingering, careful, slow. Below the lower lip. “Not quite in the same sense as your son and your late wife. That is an asteroid field I am not navigating into.”

“Because I won’t let you, or because you don’t want to?”

He sighed and turned to face Veers, passing the razor over his left cheek. “Max, I never married and, one hopes, never produced any offspring in my whole life. I don’t need to carry that heavy pack around; my own is more than enough. And, if you may forgive the bluntness—you’re not a great advertisement for familial joy.”

 _Just wait until you and the rest of the damned galaxy see that Force-awful footage_. “You could have just said you don’t want to, you know?”

“You are a strong boy and can stomach harsh truths, General.”

Just what Covell had said. More or less. Veers’ memory, when drenched in alcohol, was less sharp than it was safe to openly admit. “Work is one thing. Private life is another.”

“Nonsense. If courage isn’t all-around, it’s just a cheap imitation.” Piett straightened up and turned back to the mirror. He was staring hard at himself now, and at last noticed the cut: he ripped the towel from its hanger and wiped the blood off his face.

Veers watched him finish shaving with the attention he would have put in observing a platoon drill. Every movement of Piett’s body was unhurried. Controlled.

After the razor had been washed and put into its case, Piett removed his pyjamas, socks and—spinning to face the door, but without making eye contact—finally, his pants. Then he went over to the shower. With one foot inside it and the water already sloshing, he turned to Veers again. “Would you like to join me?”

The immediate future flashed before Veers’ eyes: his uniform and underclothes in a pile on the floor; a hissed _ow, fuck_ at the cool tiles under his bare feet; the steam from the warm water jet; his back against the damp wall; Piett’s wet hands running up and down his body; his hands on Piett’s shoulders, pressing downwards; Piett on his knees in front of him, water streaming over him; _huh-uh, this is why you shaved first, sailor_ —

“Give me my honest answer for today, Firmus.”

“...Now? Here?”

“Now and here, yes.”

Piett groaned, but pulled the shower curtain closed. “Please make it an easy one. I’m already feeling a bit cold.”

“Was it your idea to enlist your nephew in the armed forces?” The question just came to Veers on its own, the same way quick thinking on the battlefield did.

“Well, that _is_ easy. No, it wasn’t my idea. Are you sure you don’t want to get in?”

“Firmus, no cheating.”

They both fell silent. A light fog of steam started seeping from the open top of the shower box.

“I didn’t even know Haidar had joined the Navy,” Piett all but whispered, as if in the vain hope the splash of the water would cover his words. “Actually, I wouldn’t have sent him down that path; he was a troublesome little thug, like most youths on Axxila.”

Veers raised an eyebrow and kept what he was wondering ( _Do you mean, most youths except for yourself?_ ) to himself.

“I thought he would either get himself expelled for indiscipline, or move on to become one of the entirely too many inefficient and corrupt officers that plague the fringes of the Empire.”

Of course Veers knew those types; he nodded in professional sympathy. Yet, the mention of inefficient officers reminded him of Zev. Of his low grades and his mediocre desk job post. Of the temptation Veers had felt to pull strings and at least get the lad transferred to Denon. Sure, he had resisted it, crushed it under his combat boots. But damn, he had felt it.

“Then one day,” Piett went on, “when he was fifteen standard years old, he ran away from home and I—neither I nor my sister heard anything from him until yesterday. It’s been such an eventful day, hasn’t it?”

“What about his father?”

“A small-time smuggler. Good for nothing. I suppose he’s dead, and if he isn’t, I hope one day to be able to train the Lady’s guns on him and blast him to the ninth hell.”

Technically, that had been a second honest question. Veers avoided to point out the prompt answer, although it surprised him. Not so much the vitriol; he had gotten plenty used to the frantic inner workings going on beneath the admiral’s deflector shield.

Piett covered his nose and mouth with a hand and sneezed into his palm. “If you don’t mind, now...”

“Sure. Try not to scald that thin skin of yours.”

The reply came already from behind the curtain, “Speak for yourself, dear!”

Veers despondently thumbed his left wrist. A moment later, it sank onto him that Piett might have meant thin skin as a metaphor. That would make a lot of sense and be a lot more infuriating.

He plodded out of the bathroom, massaging his shoulders and his neck. The stiffness was reaching upwards fast. Rubbing his hands hard up to the base of his skull, he realised his cap was missing. It must still be in the bedroom. He didn’t go to fetch it; it might be useful to have an innocent excuse to ring at Piett’s door, or make Piett ring at his.

He made his way out, then in to his flat. The sunlight pooled on the floor and furniture from the holes he’d left open in the windows; it reminded him of his and Eli’s bedroom, when they lay in crumpled blankets until noon and the light cracked into the room by strips and dots, unobtrusive to their sleepy love-making.

Thank the stars there were beer cans in the fridge.


	11. Chapter 11

Veers was gone. His boots thumped on the squeaky floor, so different from the Lady’s durasteel surfaces. The footfalls grew fainter until they were lost in the overwhelming splash of the shower.

It was comforting to know that behind the curtain and under the water stream, nobody could hear Piett pant several times, until the uneasiness in his throat melted away into the hot vapour.

He focused on the water, marvellous hot water in endless supply; on the scent and feel of the soap and the gels; on being here, standing with his eyes closed under the jet that enveloped his body in warmth and cleanliness and rinsed a zesty-smelling foam off his hair. In that bliss, all the filth and the misery that had filled his life could be washed away, too. No Axxila anymore. No Admiral Ozzel. No late Mrs Veers.

When the humidity made it hard to breathe and a heat-induced flush had spread all over his skin, Piett turned off the water and stepped out into the foggy bathroom. The shower room at the academy didn’t have proper showers, just taps and sinks at which the cadets filled mugs of water to pour on themselves. He hastened to retrieve a towel, as if he were back there, sixteen standard years old, and had sensed someone else’s eyes fixed on his scrawny arse. The towel smelled of laundered fabric and he pressed it against his nose, breathing in the scent and letting it ground him into the present.

The present meant he was an admiral on shore leave on Kuat. That was fine. It also meant he had spouted off a bunch of banthacrap to his lover, out of fear and discomfort and a cowardice unbefitting of an admiral who dealt with Lord Vader on a daily basis. “Buggerin’ poodoo,” he whined into the towel, then took another series of deep breaths until the edge of the anguish had dulled. The scent of the clean towel helped; it was so much better than the stuff from a starship’s launderette.

He wiped himself as dry as he could, whipped the towel around his waist and moved to the bedroom. The unmade bed made him pause and stare; it felt weird that the cause for this mess of crumpled bedcovers had not been him and Veers and the night.

Grunting, Piett gave his scalp another angry rub with the towel. He had gotten too used to being in a romantic entanglement, illicit as it was. Veers had gotten too used to it, too; he was getting strange ideas in his durasteel-thick handsome head. Ideas that would lead him to disappointment and upset. Disappointment and upset would lead him to the wise decision to let go of this liaison; better to return to friends and co-workers, no hard feelings, fair and square.

The thought left Piett gasping and wobbly-kneed. He sat on the bed, wrapping the towel tight over his shoulders. His skin was still hot, but his body wouldn’t kriffing stop shaking. He curled up on the mattress and threw the bedcovers over himself. On another day, a muscular arm would have snaked around his waist and the warm, dark lair under the bedcovers would have been full of Veers’ scent. _Don’t think about it_. _Don’t think about him_. _He’ll get over it_. _You must get over it, too_.

He knew he’d dozed off when Veers’ arm _was_ around his waist. Veers turned him to lie flat on his stomach, pounded into him with no lube or preparation, and it didn’t hurt. Neither of them spoke, not even to cry out the other’s name.

When the dream faded, he was alone and sweaty, his cock was half-stiff, his left leg was numb, and it was musty under the blanket. He peered out blinking and squinting; the light was grey and so dim that the furniture in the bedroom only appeared as contours.

 _Night cycle lights are malfunctioning. Must notify maintenance..._ Wait. This place was planetside. “...Hell.”

He massaged his temples with one hand, and groped at the bedside chest of drawers with the other. Before remembering the holoprojector was inside a drawer, he knocked to the floor the ice cream tub; the spoon made a metallic racket that felt like having a blaster bolt ricocheting in his skull.

The next thing to fall was something made of cloth. At least that made no noise upon hitting the ground. Odd, he was sure he’d put his cap in the wardrobe with the rest of his uniform.

The holoprojector told him it was almost noon in Imperial Standard Time, and early evening in local time. It also told him he had twenty-nine unread messages in his inbox; there had been twenty last time he’d checked before succumbing to sleep last night... well, last sunrise. None was flagged as high priority, so he didn’t check them.

His stomach told him it was overdue for a refill, and told him aloud. Thirst and hunger pushed into the background the dismay at what had happened with Veers.

Another bit of groping allowed him to locate the light switch, without further crashes. The light had different regulations, and Piett set it at the closest he could get to shipboard night cycle intensity.

First, a bit of clean-up. He scooped up the ice cream tub, the spoon that had rolled out of it, and the cap. The fit was a bit large for his head, and the inside of the cap smelled like Veers. “Max, you careless berk,” Piett said under his breath. For a passing instant, he was startled at not hearing a piqued retort from the bed. He put the cap back on the top of the chest, consigned the tub to the nearest garbage disposal and the spoon to the kitchenette sink, and shuffled once again into the bathroom armed with a change of clothes.

When he strutted out of it, fully dressed save for the boots, the universe around him had a sense and a purpose again. The admiral of Death Squadron went out to dine.

Within ten minutes of walking in a breezy darkening dusk that the streetlights were just  starting to brighten, he was already regretting not having brought a coat, or at least putting on a long-sleeved shirt under his tunic. He walked at a brisk pace to keep himself warm, and as soon as he spotted a café with Imperial officers sitting at the tables in front, he headed inside.

The interior was lit by yellow lamps, hanging in round cases of iron and glass. Wood panels covered the walls and separated each table. There weren’t as many people inside the café as outside; just the right amount to make one feel neither like a lost soul, nor crushed into the crowd and its din.

A waitress in a bow tie and laced apron approached him with the charming smile of a fresh young soldier before battle weariness sets in, and led him to a table. Along the way, Piett’s eyes roamed over to the bar counter and the cake slices on display there, behind polished glass cases and price tags he was afraid to read.

His stomach growled. There was no way the waitress hadn’t heard it, but she acted professionally and ignored it. “Is this table all right, Admiral?”

“Yes, thank you.” Being addressed with his proper rank by a civilian was a balm to his confidence.

The seating was a wooden bench with a thin padding, probably worn out by the arses of countless pilots and engineers since the Republic era, but the table had caught up with modernity and was equipped with a small HoloNet terminal.

The waitress whipped a small datapad and stylus out of her apron pocket. “Would you like to start out with an aperitif? We have an excellent section of rare Lothalian wines available this week.”

What in the nine hells was an aperitif? “All right, I will have a glass of that.”

“Any preference?”

The cheapest and the most alcoholic. “A still one, please.”

“Hmm.” Seeing through his ignorance, the waitress tapped the stylus on the datapad. “What about the Jalath Grand Reserve white?”

“Yes, that will do.”

More stylus tapping. “Could you please swipe your code cylinder here?” She handed him the datapad, and he did as instructed. After a few whirring seconds, a merry green light blinked and the waitress flashed him another smile. “Thank you. Our kitchen staff will ensure there are no ingredients incompatible with your medical record in your food. I will bring you your drink and the menu in a moment.”

Piett watched her trot away, the smile replaced by a frown as she approached a tray of dirty napkins, quarter-full glasses and half-eaten tarts someone else had left on the countertop. He had a bizarre, faint hunch of having made a gaffe somewhere in that interaction. Blast, Admiral Ozzel would have known what fine wine to order...

Shaking his head, he turned to the holoprojector. That, too, was blinking green now. He tapped the screen on to an automated message:

_Greetings, ADM. FIRMUS PIETT_

_This device has been installed and tested by the Kuat City Garrison Imperial Communications Centre. All inbound and outbound communications from this device are SECURE._

And monitored by the ISB, no doubt. He swiped past the welcome message and logged in to his inbox. Most of the unread messages were work-related, but they could wait. There were a few formal invitations and promotional balderdash, but one caught his attention: it came from the personal ID of an officer. Captain Mikos Chiraneau.

Good stars. That Chiraneau, at the battle of Turkana. The _Formidable_ ’s chief flight officer, who in his after-action report threatened to punch Captain Lennox the next time they would meet. Piett opened the message. Greetings, congratulations on the promotion and the victory—Piett noted the order of the congratulations—and an ominously cheerful closing paragraph:

_It is my utmost pleasure to find you again on Kuat in such splendid shape. If you have free time one of these days and would like to meet for caf and friendly conversation, please do let me know._

Piett slanted a look at the café around him, at the groups laughing and smoking and clicking glasses outside, at the cakes on display. He didn’t want friendly conversation. The one man he wanted to have anything friendly to do with had stormed off to stew in his own family bitter soup. Piett just wanted solid food, and wine. He craned his neck to get a better view of the cakes; he’d probably have the white chocolate glaze one with the round green fruits, or whatever they were, on top.

While his eyes were glued to the cakes, his fingertips typed on the holoterminal:

_Dear Captain Chiraneau,_

_My heartfelt thanks. Of course I remember you. I would be very glad if we could meet. Please let me know when you have a spare moment._

_Glory to the Emperor, etc_

_Adm. Firmus Piett_

He scanned the text for typos, was pleased to find none, and sent it. Within a fraction of second it was marked as received and read. Odd.

A noise of footfalls made him turn. _Max...?_

The waitress placed a glass of bubbly white liquid and a tray of appetizers on his table. “And here is the menu, sir.” She passed him a leather-bound booklet.

Chiraneau was already writing a reply.

Piett thanked the waitress and tore into the appetizers. They were arranged in square china plates, so small he would have scorned them even as ashtrays. The first one to go, impaled on a toothpick, was a stack of gummy cheese topped with sour cream; then dices of cured meat seasoned with herbs that were as much scented as they were tasteless; he had devoured half of his way through a bowl of crispy chips that melted into flour in his mouth, when the holoterminal chirped with a new message.

_I am free right now, sir. Where are you?_

Piett cocked an eyebrow while munching on his chips. Damn, what was this place called? He looked around; there the waitress was, walking back inside while tapping on her datapad and nearly colliding with a colleague trotting outside.

No. Asking her was out of the question. Too undignified. Servers that weren’t part of the _Executor_ ’s staff could not be trusted, could not be prevented from becoming tattletales. Piett picked up the menu; mercifully, it had the name of the café printed in neat golden letters on the frontispiece. _Café Centerpoint_ , he typed into the holoterminal.

Chiraneau’s reply was a volley of submachine gun fire:

_Ahh_

_Fancy!_

_Excellent choice, sir_

_I will be there in twenty standard minutes or so_

_Would you please roger_

_*Order a crab rotoven without pepper and a quarter of_

The tag informing him Chiraneau was composing a message stayed in place for several seconds, during which Piett finished off the chips.

_Celanon Semi-Dry_

_?_

Piett courteously replied he would. It went without saying that, if Chiraneau assumed the admiral was paying for his part of the bill, too, Piett would grow telekinetic powers and strangle him in perfect Lord Vader fashion.

He flipped the menu open and, reading the prices before the purple-prose food descriptions, he analysed his exchange with Chiraneau like he would an intel report.

Mikos Chiraneau, now around his early fifties, Corulag and Austringer flight schools graduate, native of Couronne. Expansion Region, neither near enough to the Core to qualify as a Coreworlder, nor so far away as to be considered Rimworlder scum. Still, Chiraneau had nothing to his name but his academy top grades and his service record. One of the many officers grazing at the edges of the war, either champing at the bit for action that never came or turning idleness into a deliberate lifestyle.

The Axxilan anti-pirate flotilla had been teeming with both types. Piett washed the memory away with a sip of wine that left the glass half-empty.

Professionalism aside, Chiraneau was an amiable fellow, the kind of officer who makes friends in every mess hall, every cantina, and every A.F.A.R. whorehouse. Quite the man who would be happy to reconnect with an old comrade. Yet, they had not been close. The Turkana battlefield had forged a bond, but seeking Piett after all these years? Wishing to meet even if it meant rushing to a café when Chiraneau was clearly busy elsewhere? That elsewhere was quite far, too. Piett had looked up all the hovertram lines leading to this area: twenty minutes was the estimated journey time of a twenty-five kilometres long tram line.

Supposing this was Chiraneau’s effort, why would he do that? How did he know Admiral Piett was on Kuat, first off?

Piett smiled to himself, biting into a wafer of buttered bread. One only had to follow the HoloNet news to know the _Executor_ was moored at the orbital ring. Many Navy officers must have seen her, if they’d travelled to space these days.

The _Executor_ meant Lord Vader. The fastest track to a post at the top of the fleet. Lacking Lord Vader, his admiral was the next in line. Therefore, Admiral Firmus Piett’s favour was worth currying.

He sat back, stretching his legs under the table and rocking the glass in a hand. Amazing. He had become someone whose arse another officer wanted to lick. Not in the literal sense; Veers was the only one who might mean it in that way.

The stars only knew if he would ever still want to...

The Force came to his aid and sent the waitress back to him. “Are you ready to order, sir?”

“Actually, a colleague of mine shall be joining me soon.” Even with the caveat Chiraneau was not doing it so out of good heart, a genuine warmth crept into Piett’s polite smile. “I hope that is alright?”

“Of course!”

Of course, indeed. More credits to milk out of the Imperial officer corps. The warmth faded. “He sent me word for a crab rotoven without pepper and a glass of Celanon Semi-Dry... Scratch that; please do make that a whole bottle. We will share.”

“Excellent choice, sir. What about your food? Do we make it another crab rotoven? I recommend the chef’s special sauces; spicy or sweet, whichever you prefer.”

Piett had seen the price of the crab rotoven. In his mind he added a note to Chiraneau’s profile: _prodigal_. “I’ll have a small nerf steak with bean sprouts, thanks.”

The waitress started noting down the order, then paused mid-tapping. “Small, are you sure?” The tone was one of mild surprise, within the limits of courtesy. “They’re grill-cooked. Small sizes tend to get very burnt. The tastiest ones we recommend are those from medium size up.”

“Not to worry, I’ll be fine with the small one.” Piett’s stomach grumbled in dissent. He crossed his arms over his midriff and pretended the noise hadn’t happened.

“Ooookay, then...” She resumed the datapad tapping.

Piett peeked past her and caught a glimpse of a waiter marching out of the kitchen area, carrying a sizzling chunk of meat and vegetables on a grill tray. To the nine hells with his thrifty self. It wasn’t like he had to save money to help out a family anymore. “Pardon me, I have changed my mind. I’ll go for the large steak.”

She was very happy to modify the order.

To kill waiting time, Piett finished his appetizers and the wine, and went through some of the other messages in his inbox. Several of them were invitations to fancy events; one, held at a place called Jeskeith Manor and _proudly hosted by Jeskeith Aerospace Industries_ , made him pause to think. Jeskeith, like the captain of the _Bulwark_. Jeskeith Aerospace Industries had secured a contract for the navigation systems upgrades on _Executor_ -class dreadnoughts. It made sense a family in the shipbuilding business may offer one of their children as a sacrifice to the fleet, proving that not all of them were indecently profiting from the war effort and delegating the gross job of actual warfare to less fortunate others.

He tapped the message closed. Unfair, he chastised himself. Captain Jeskeith’s family could have bought her a commission in the old Republic fleet, but there weren’t enough creds in the galaxy to buy so many high grades at Prefsbelt. And if they could buy grades, they could never buy a letter of reference written and signed by Captain Montferrat of the _Devastator_.

An ugly thought crossed Piett’s mind, straight from the promotion methods on Axxila: what if she had bought Captain Montferrat’s recommendation, but using her pink hyperlane rather than credits?

He shuddered. He didn’t know Jeskeith yet, but Montferrat didn’t deserve even the suspicion of dabbling in sexual favours.

The waitress brought him the wine in its bottle, uncorked and ready for use. Piett wanted to chug until he choked, but there was dignity to preserve and he’d grown allergic to the mere idea of death by asphyxiation.

With a hand dexterity Piett had often seen in pickpockets, the waitress produced a clean glass with which she replaced the one that had held the Lothal Grand Reserve. He made an effort to shove that comparison aside and think of something more appropriate: ship mechanics, for example. Or certain prostitutes who specialised in handjobs. And Veers. He thanked the waitress without looking at her, his eyes fixed on the wine bubbling in the glass.

He couldn’t hold himself back and downed the glass in one draught. The wine left his throat much drier than the name on the label had implied; he coughed into his napkin, then poured himself a refill. _Make this last_. It was appalling how much surliness went into sticking to his usual restraint. It was always so easy in the mess hall of the _Executor_... Well, this place was not the _Executor_. That was the point. So Piett cradled the glass between his cupped palms, glaring at the wine as if it was all to blame.

In a sense, the original fault had been the grog’s.

An officer tottered in and Piett looked up, but it wasn’t Chiraneau. Neither a man’s physique, nor middle-aged, and as she shambled past Piett’s table towards the restroom door, he noted she wasn’t even a captain.

The next one to walk in, however, was indeed a man, middle-aged, and looked around like someone who was searching for someone else. As soon as his eyes met Piett’s, mutual recognition caught a spark. Captain Chiraneau hurried to Piett, as the admiral rose to greet him.

“Good evening, Admiral,” said Chiraneau, with a brief pause during the salute. “It’s a wonderful evening, isn’t it? I apologise for the wait.”

“Nothing to apologise for.” Piett motioned him to sit, opposite to him. Chiraneau’s eyes locked onto the bottle like a ship’s targeting computer onto a Rebel cruiser, and he broke into a grin as he took off his gloves. “You are a blessing, sir.”

“Oh, please.”

Chiraneau made to grab the bottle, but the waitress beat him to it. He frowned at first but grinned again as soon as he realised the bottle snatcher had breasts, was conventionally attractive by Core Worlds standards, and had taken hold of the bottle for the sole purpose of pouring wine in the glass for him. Chiraneau then watched her walk away. “Someone is earning herself a tip tonight.”

“Do they tip on Kuat?” Piett felt comfortable asking him. Chiraneau wouldn’t judge him for such a trivial question, the sort a socially awkward Rimworlder would ask.

“They don’t expect _us_ to tip. So if you do it, it’ll appear extra nice.”

“Us?”

“Imperials, of course. The minimum wages on this planet have plummeted in the past three years, you see.”

Since the battle of Yavin, Piett noted mentally but didn’t say out loud. He nodded as Chiraneau went on, “Serving people are cheaper to maintain than droids, but they have to put food in their stomach aside from on our tables, right? So, in short,” Chiraneau shrugged, “tipping has become more and more a part of common good manners. And who wouldn’t want to be polite to a pretty lady or lad?”

Piett raised his glass. “Well then, to the Empire, and to pretty sentients of all genders.” He felt like he didn’t mean a single word of that toast, barring the part about the Empire.

Blissfully oblivious, Chiraneau laughed. His glass chimed against Piett’s. “Cheers!”

Sweet stars, Piett thought as he took a sip, if a man like this didn’t manage to lift his spirits then he was a lost cause. He would have to apologise to Veers and make peace with him, lest the entire shore leave became poisoned.

“Excellent,” Chiraneau drawled to the wine glass. “Did you know it was the Mandalorian conquerors of Celanon who started harvesting this wine grape?”

“In that case, I am surprised it’s so mild.”

“You only say that because you’re Axxilan!”

It was true, and it stung. “No, I only say that because I am an officer of the Imperial Navy.” It rolled so nicely off his tongue. All those miserable hours spent practising in front of the mirror had paid off. Haidar was an ungrateful little git with no concept of self-improvement; there was no way in the universe his opinion should upset Admiral Piett.

“On the topic of officers of the Imperial Navy...” Chiraneau lowered his voice. “I read the Hoth reports. Not the ones for the public, you know.”

“Hmm.”

“I cannot say I am too sorry for what happened to Captain Lennox.”

“I hope you are at least a little sorry for the _Tyrant_?”

“Oh, I always feel sorry for ships with bad captains.”

Piett allowed himself a curt laugh. Lennox was alive and on a prolonged medical leave, due to his hip prosthetics acting up after an ion cannon shot had paralysed the _Tyrant_ ’s systems—and the majority of electronic appliances on board. The medical leave had been an elegant excuse to get rid of that hothead. He whispered, “I have not forgotten Turkana, Captain.”

“Who could forget it?” Chiraneau rolled his eyes and waved his glass-free hand. “Oh, right. Lennox could.”

Piett raised his eyebrows and took a longer sip of wine.

“Captain Needa, on the other hand... Poor bastard. He was such a jolly good fellow.”

If Chiraneau expected a reply, even a nod, Piett wasn’t inclined to give it. He valued not triggering another wave of nightmares about Captain Needa gasping for air and dropping to his knees while Lord Vader’s jarringly regular breathing made the silence thick with terror. Especially not now that Veers was unlikely to keep him company at night cycle... at _night_. This place had a proper night.

“What did he even do to make Lord Vader so angry?”

“Who told you Lord Vader had anything to do with it?”

Chiraneau blinked, shrugged, shifted and hand-waved under Piett’s scrutinising glare. “Well, the fleet.”

“The _fleet_.”

“...Scuttlebutt. Alright, I confess.” A dramatic sigh. Chiraneau shrugged, then draped an arm on the headboard of the bench and made swirling hand gestures as he spoke. “It is a wild method, and in its wildness it’s more accurate than any official bulletin, isn’t it? But really, the dearly beloved Lorth Needa is all the _Avenger_ crew talks about.”

Not with the _Executor_ ’s crew, though. Not within the admiral’s earshot. If nonsense could get past his radar so easily, the Force knew what serious matters might never break the _Avenger_ crew’s code of secrecy. “Understandable. He was a well-liked officer.”

“Hah, indeed! They say he’s still protecting the Vengie from the Great Beyond. I understand they pray to his ghost for smooth sailing. Some pilots keep holos of his in their locker, and they kiss them before heading to the hangar bay.”

It was Piett’s turn to shrug. “As long as there are no seditious tendencies, I see no reason to clamp down on this little cult. After all, it is a lost battle to fight superstitions in the Navy, or anywhere in space travelling.”

“Lost battle, yes. Absolutely futile.” Chiraneau put down his glass, muttering, “Ah, better I don’t finish it all ahead of time...” Then he said, “I’d wager the new captain of the _Avenger_ prays for more luck than his predecessor every day. Who is that, by the way?”

“Captain Mosel.”

“Hm-hm. I don’t know him.” So Chiraneau did know him. He made a tardy attempt at lying, “Him, correct? How do you like him?”

“Mosel is competent.” Piett took a sip of his own wine, letting Chiraneau stare at him for further gossip, which didn’t come.

“And—is that all there is to him?”

The glass clicked on the table as Piett put it down. “It is all there is to know about why I made Mosel captain of the _Avenger_. Were you coveting that post?”

Chiraneau flinched, then tried to break the awkwardness with an unconvincing laughter. “You used to be more diplomatic when you were captain of the _Accuser_ , sir.”

Piett conceded a dry smile. “Oh, I had to be.” Lest he got sent back to rot in his home sector. But he appreciated Chiraneau’s tact in not reminding him that, in the _Accuser_ days, he had been just an _acting_ captain. That begged a sprinkle of friendliness. “Lord Vader’s style of command is brutally straightforward. He values results over good humour.” Sound advice, however, was more useful than friendliness.

“So, if I wanted in to Death Squadron, I better drop the buffoon act?”

He caught on fast. Piett nodded. “Much better.”

“Why, I can be a serious man if need be! And, colourful language aside, I think I might have shown that at Turkana.”

“Even for prolonged stretches of time?” Piett picked up his glass again. “This is the first long shore leave my crew has had in twenty standard months, did you know?”

Chiraneau smiled and seemed about to crack a joke, but his expression turned more sombre instead. “How did the fighter squadrons take it?”

“I made sure the flight divisions turnover was as high as possible. Ozzel disapproved, but I think not exhausting our pilots paid off in the long run.”

“Ah, well done, well done. And all the more power to you,” Chiraneau raised his glass and an index finger, “for standing up to Admiral Ozzel.”

“Thank you. I only did what was best for the _Executor_.” This was one of those nights when he couldn’t take pride in it. Just regret he hadn’t done more.

“I may have left the flight corps, but the coffin jockeys remain very dear to my heart, you see.”

“Pardon me? You left the flight corps?”

Chiraneau tugged at a lock of silver hair peeking from under his cap. “My reflexes aren’t as quick as when I was a dashing young daredevil, sir. So I moved on to deep-space transmissions. If I can’t be out in the vac with the pilots, I can at least make sure they don’t get lost in the Big Isn’t.”

“Interesting. Very interesting, in fact.”

“Flattered you think so, sir.”

“I don’t want to get your hopes high, Captain, but there might be something for you in Death Squadron, after all.”

“Too late, sir. My hopes are already high. Risk of summary execution notwithstanding.” That beaming smile graced Chiraneau’s features once more. Piett found it a little disturbing. “The TIE fighter corps taught me not to mind death breathing down my neck while I’m at work.”

Typical TIE fighter corps bravado. Piett knew it wasn’t true, not entirely at least, even for the coffin jockeys; but it wasn’t polite to tell too much truth at the dinner table during a shore leave. “Good for you, Captain. I couldn’t think of a better job description.”

“So, so... Shall I be posted to the _Executor_ herself?”

“High hopes, high hopes!” From his seat, he was the first to spot the waitress prancing forward with a grill plate in her hands. Chiraneau’s crab rotoven followed suit. It was perhaps half a minute, no more, but the scent of sizzling meat reminded Piett of how hungry he was and waiting for the other man’s dish to be brought in almost drove his stomach to implode.

Chiraneau tucked the napkin into the collar of his uniform before attacking the lumps of peppered crustacean flesh on his plate. After a moment’s hesitation, Piett imitated the gesture. Fucking hells, couldn’t the galaxy let him eat a steak in peace?

 _Stop whingeing, Admiral_. It wasn’t as bad as certain bad days when his meal was a ration bar or a protein slur quickly ingested on the way to the bridge. With the bothersome napkin hanging from his collar and threatening at every moment to catch the hot coals under the grill, he stabbed a slice of steak on his fork and tore it with his teeth. Tender hot meat, full of blood inside, crispy with burn and herbs and salt crust on the outside... Better than any cock or cunt he’d ever eaten.

He only noticed halfway through it that the waitress had brought him an empty dish, no doubt for the purpose of transferring the meat from the grill. Besides, he had been provided a knife in order to use it.

Well, now it was too late to pass for a civilised Human. His stomach was filling up, and just like someone fresh off a good fuck, he wasn’t inclined to care about anything else.

When not an atom of meat and bean sprouts remained on the grill, he looked up and saw that Chiraneau’s plate was still half full. He felt self-conscious and exposed, as if he had openly confessed a weakness.

Chiraneau raised his eyes to meet Piett’s. “How was the steak?” he asked in-between forkfuls of crab rotoven.

“Very good. Your meal?”

“You know, sir, there is nothing I love more than the Imperial Navy. Yet, after months on an Impstar, I have the impression that fresh food is what I love the most in the galaxy.”

It was more reliable and less stressful than loving another sentient. So Piett didn’t take offence at the disrespectful statement. “More wine?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured Chiraneau a glass, then one for himself, which he guzzled in one go. A part of his brain somehow expected it to be grog, and was disappointed at being proven very wrong. Strill piss must be more inebriating than this wine.

“Admiral?” Chiraneau rested his fists on the table, at the sides of the dish, even though there was still food in there. “You wouldn’t have told me there is a slim chance I might make it into Death Squadron if you weren’t giving it serious consideration. And it is because of my present specialisation.” It was not a question.

Piett dabbed wine off his mouth and spoke through the napkin, “Do go on, Captain.”

Chiraneau licked a crumb off his lower lip. “So, you need a deep-space transmission specialist. Well, you need or,” he waved the knife hand, “you _might_ need one. Would it increase my chances if I said I have work experience on hyperlanes created through S-thread boosters?”

“Hmm.” Who in the buggering nine hells had told this tipsy arsehole about the Sanctuary Pipeline? It was supposed to be top-secret intel, for stars’ sake. Why wasn’t the ISB doing its damned job _keeping_ it top-secret? “The Gandeal-Fondor Hyperlane.”

“Better yet, sir: the Byss Run. Deep Core, where space is all wacky.” Chiraneau let go of the knife to tap his index finger on his temple. “Six standard months’ patrol duty there.”

Could it actually be that Chiraneau knew nothing of the Sanctuary Pipeline, and had just thrown that mention of S-thread boosters to impress the admiral? Had Piett sinned of attributing to malice what could be attributed to plain old stupidity? “Not quite the fanciest part of the Core, as far as I know.”

“Oh, terrible, terrible! Level One of Coruscant seems cosy in comparison. The radiation in some quadrants was so intense that it melted the machinery. A few boosters were sucked into black holes, and ships too. Brr.” Chiraneau simulated a shiver. “I wouldn’t wish a tour of duty there to the worst Rebel criminal.”

“They thought Hoth was bad, according to the prisoners we interrogated.”

Chiraneau guffawed. He concentrated on finishing his meal, and Piett let him do so while he helped himself to more wine. This Celanon Semi-Dry was good. So was the aroma that blew from Chiraneau’s plate and what was left of the crab rotoven. Maybe Piett should recruit him for the main officers galley. The way the captain gathered his food on the fork and smelled it for a fraction of second before taking it to his mouth, his half-shut eyes and the faint smile as he chewed, were the most positive review that this place’s kitchen could ever get.

Piett found himself hungry again. His stomach had the decency to hum rather than rumble. “Shall you have dessert, too?” he asked Chiraneau when the latter had put down his fork on the empty plate and wiped his lips on the napkin.

“Pardon me, sir—a dessert as in those,” Chiraneau jabbed a thumb at the cakes on the counter, “or as in...”  He slanted a look of unmistakable lust at a handsome waiter pranced by, showing off a supple pair of buns in the skin-tight blue trousers. It was as pleasant to watch as the cakes, but Piett treated Chiraneau to a scowl.

“Oh. Decorum, eh? I apologise, sir,” said Chiraneau with all the seriousness of a Navy man who was never going to take that apology seriously. He motioned the handsome waiter to the table, ordered a cup of caramel caf for himself, “And the desserts menu for the admiral, please.”

Piett’s jaw nearly dropped to the table that the waiter’s nimble hands were freeing of used dishware. Was it simple politeness or did Chiraneau know he had no idea what all those cakes were named? How did he know that, once he stepped outside a Super Star Destroyer and whatever planet he found himself on wasn’t Axxila, Piett needed to be protected from making a bumbling bantha out of himself all the time?

“Thank you, Captain,” he said in a neutral polite tone.

“I recommend the Old Kuati cheesecake.”

“I will keep it in mind.” A few drops of poison dripped through his outer cool. He’d heard that tone before; Ozzel assuring Lord Vader that he had the situation wholly under control, whereas he hadn’t even bothered to read the status reports Captain Piett had left on his desk. _Calm down, Firmus. He’s trying to be kind. He’s trying to curry favour. Calm the nine hells down_. He ended up ordering flatcakes because they were the most familiar thing in the desserts menu; of course they were a fancy version, with whipped cream and two kinds of jam.

“And two glasses of Bespin port,” he told the waiter.

Chiraneau grinned like a youngling getting Boonta Eve presents. Once the waiter was gone, he whistled. “Bespin port! Ah, excellent! You have become a connoisseur.”

“Hopefully.” The mission to Bespin had to be kept stealthy, so there had been no shore leaves there for the _Executor’s_ crewmembers. However, Veers had procured a bottle of the local port through one of his men, Lieutenant Sheckil: there was nothing surprising about the commander of the occupation task force in Cloud City bringing aboard a souvenir.

 _“But the funny thing, Firmus, is that Sheckil is abstemious. Swore off booze when he left Concord Dawn_.”

_“Having seen drunken Mandalorians, I can only applaud this life choice. Pour me another glass dear, won’t you?”_

The memory wasn’t welcome. It was eclipsed when a now tired-looking waitress lay the flatcakes before him and he wolfed them to the last drop of salakberry jam. But it came back into blinding shine as soon as the Bespin port sweetly burned his tongue.

He didn’t know if he never wanted to see Veers again or if he wanted him here this very moment, sitting in the space Chiraneau was occupying, bantering with him about the Army and the Navy, teasing his legs and crotch with his foot under the table, giving him a narrow-eyed smile that promised to show him Wild Space in bed. Or in the nearest secluded corner.

“...Sir?”

“Sorry...? Excuse me, Captain, I was lost in my thoughts.”

“Pleasant thoughts?”

“Not quite.”

“Ah, that’s bad!” Chiraneau pointed to the ceiling. “If thoughts aren’t pleasant, they’re the last place one should get lost in.”

In his weakened mental state, Piett nodded out of genuine agreement at that stale piece of wisdom.

“I know a perfect remedy, though.”

“More port?”

“Oh no, much better!” Chiraneau’s voice was hoarse from the drink, and he cleared his throat. “One that doesn’t endanger your liver.”

They were silent for a few seconds, reading each other’s gaze.

Piett trained the guns on the enemy flagship. “Is it the kind that might endanger other body parts?”

Chiraneau boomed with laughter. “Admiral, please! A.F.A.R. runs more medical checks on their whores than the MedCorps does on stormtroopers.”

A civilian woman on her way to the restroom shot them a disapproving glance.

For the first time since he’d learned that the Empire owned state-sponsored brothels for military personnel, Piett was ashamed—of himself, of the Empire, of that random woman giving him that scathing look, of what Veers might think. He wanted to let his body loosen up and slide under the table. The uniform kept him sitting upright like an exoskeleton.

Chiraneau gently shook his glass to stir what was left of the port in it. “I happen to have promised the madam of the finest knocking shop this side of the Kuat sector I’d bring a friend, next time I came visiting...”


	12. Chapter 12

According to the Imperial Army drillbook, a subordinate was allowed to break attention stance as soon as their superior had: a.) given the order to stand at ease; b.) left the room; c.) moved away from the subordinate at any distance above five meters, and no longer acknowledged the subordinate’s presence.

Nevertheless, Lieutenant Kijé didn’t dare lower her arm and slouch until General Veers was about twenty paces away. He took his time along the path, so her saluting arm grew numb.

At her side, Captain Sarkli groaned. “Bollocks, I ain’t feelin’ me right arm anymore.” He flexed and stretched it over his head.

“The same applies to me, sir, believe me.”

“Please, lassie, ‘nuff wi’ sirs here an’ there for today. I’m Haidar.” He cracked his knuckles. For Shiraya knew what messed up reason, Kijé had always found that arousing; she tried not to dwell on the thought, even if the popping and crackling noises were so beautifully loud and defined she could tell apart every single finger popping, in a crescendo...

 _No no no noooo._ _Think of something ugly. Think of Lieutenant Veers. Ugh_. “What an arse,” she said.

“You noticed it, too, aye?” Sarkli laughed. “For a man his age, General Veers has a damn fine pair o’ afterburners, I agree. Maybe I shoulda tried an’ seduce him instead of Lieutenant Veers.”

Kijé blushed. It was a nasty burning sensation, like being slapped across the face, that made her head spin. She smiled through it. “Oh, no, I meant it figuratively, and referring to Lieutenant Veers. I apologise, I was lost in my thoughts. That must have sounded so off-handed.”

“Ahh. Aye, I agree on that, too. Annie, right?”

“Annice.”

“Annice. Think ye might agree to a cuppa caf?”

“You mean, you and I? Together?”

“I’m buyin’, if that’s what troubles ye.”

Kijé kept smiling, although the only thing her facial muscles wanted to express was a visceral _NO_.

“It ain’t that, eh? Is it ‘cause of what Lieutenant Veers said ‘bout us an’ last night at the bar?” There was no irritation in his tone. That was a surprise.

“I will say naw more.” Sarkli threw up his arms. Kijé caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his right forearm, peeking out between the tunic sleeve rim and the glove. “But I’m nosy now—what did Lieutenant Veers do to ye?” He tugged down his sleeves, stuffed his hands inside his pockets and leaned against a column. The pose, the expression, were something straight out of that period in Naboo art when prettified, idealised street urchins were all the rage in portrait painting.

Kijé took in a deep breath. If she tried to spin the current predicament as if she were talking to a work of art, something silent and non-judgmental, it felt easier. The words streamed out, “It all started yesterday. I met him by sheer chance in the Ursula Kuat Memorial Park; we sat down and started chatting, then... I don’t know, maybe it was something I said or did—anyway, he had been nice up until a certain point. All of a sudden, he began talking over me and lecturing me about stuff I know better than him. It was... quite like he wanted to prove a point that he was smarter than me.”

Sarkli’s smile had faded. Now he was regarding her with a serious, concentrated face. “What did he say? If yer comfortable wi’ tellin’ me.”

“I would never be uncomfortable telling something to a Naval Intelligence officer.”

He chuckled. He was cuter when he smiled. “Well, fire ‘em proton torpedoes then.”

“So, uh, he tried to defend a professor at my former university who’s under investigation for anti-Imperial activity.”

Sarkli’s eyebrows shot up. Kijé only then realised she was fine with making eye contact with him. She went on, “He compared keeping such a subversive academic around to Lord Vader’s lightsaber combat style, which he claimed was a direct call-back to the Jedi. We Naboo don’t like Jedi at all, you know; they murdered Senator Amidala.”

“Yer from Naboo?”

Her flat chest swelled with patriotic pride, making up for the lack of tits. “Born and bred. Have you ever been there?” It was a silly question that derailed the conversation, and could have been interpreted as a clever way to backpedal from a risky topic. Had Kijé not been smiling, she would have bitten her stupid tongue until it bled.

Sarkli didn’t seem to mind. His expression turned dreamy. “When I was an Infiltrations operative, I met this pilot chap from Theed. Coulda listened to him talk ‘bout his homeworld an’ hometown for hours on. He promised me he’d show me ‘round there, once the war was o’er an’ the Empire gone.” He sighed. “Then he was killed in combat, thanks to intel I fed our side.”

“Wait, do you mean this person was a Rebel?”

“Aye! Told ye, I was in Infiltrations.”

Something froze up in Kijé’s guts. She was certain it was just another side of her patriotic feelings: outrage and hurt at learning the criminal deeds of a fellow countryman. What else could it be? Not fear, no, definitely not the instinctive fear of the spy. There was no reason for her to fear him. She had done nothing wrong.

“A fine lad he was. Huttfuckin’ shame he was a Rebel, too.” Sarkli shrugged. “But so it goes. Sorry I cut ye off, by the way. Ye were sayin’, so, Lieutenant Veers dissed Lord Vader?”

That wording had an ugly, subversive ring to it. General Veers would not have liked it; he was very clearly attached to that undeserving piece of poodoo he had for a son. Kijé tried to limit the damage, “I’m absolutely certain he did it in order to spite me. I told him I am in Death Squadron, so he must have known he was poking at a raw nerve by mentioning my own supreme commander.”

Sarkli nodded, his stare sizing her up. It did take an effort of imagination to believe this willowy junior officer and Lord Darth Vader shared... well, the same galaxy, let alone the same ship. But the _Executor_ was a big place, populated by plenty of Humans and droids who were a lot more anonymous than her.

_Congratulations, Annice: you are more important and valuable than a mouse droid!_

She had to do something physical, anything, to kick that thought away. Clearing her throat with a needlessly loud noise and apologising worked.

“Oi, I know ye don’t trust me wi’ takin’ ye to a tapcaf, but do lemme fetch ye some water.” Before Kijé could overthink some reason why this was inappropriate and stammer it out, Sarkli disappeared into the library, speeding through the body scanners in an unison of positive beeps. What sort of security clearance level did this guy have?

A high one, if he had been tasked with investigating the spaceport bombing. On top of that, he knew about Chenda—about the treasonous deeds of Trooper First Class TK-838. Kijé flopped onto the base of the nearest column and breathed in several lungfuls of grass-scented air, with her back against the soothingly cool marble. It was wonderful and grounding and she’d missed such sensations during the long stretches in space, but the clump of worry didn’t dissolve; it just shrank.

It made sense that Sarkli, an Intelligence officer with a personal tie to the _Executor_ ’s admiral, had been informed of the treason attempt. Maybe he had read her own report; it would explain why he seemed to already know her, when he’d first contacted her this morning. Blasted dumb of her not to have noticed and wondered about this earlier.

Deep breaths, fresh air, a steady support behind her back...

The beeping scanners announced Sarkli’s return. He held out to Kijé a grin and a paper cup full of water to the brim. “Sorry it took me a while. Bloody droid said the cafeteria’s outta order, an’ wouldnae tell me where to find a water distributor.”

“You could have used tap water from the restroom.”

“Aw, lassie, please. That’s the thing Lieutenant Veers would’ve done.”

To make him happy, she drank up the cold water in a few swigs, at the risk of either choking on it or suffering a digestive block.

“Feelin’ better?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you kindly.”

“Mind if I take a seat?” He pointed at the free space on the column base, at her side.

Politeness made her nod in affirmation, and he sat next to her; their bodies brushed, she steeled herself against a flinch, a whiff of his tangy aftershave reached her nostrils. If he tried laying a hand on her thigh, she would grab his wrist and apply that joint-spraining manoeuvre Veers had taught her. Knowing she could hurt him if need be was reassuring, and she felt suddenly ready to hold each and every conversation he might start. Eager to, even.

“We got a wee off the hyperlane, didnae we?”

“Sorry?”

“Naw, ‘twas me fault.”

“No no, I didn’t mean as in... Oh, never mind.” She stared into the empty cup, perched atop her knees and held up by her gloved hands. She pretended to shake it and see if there was any water left. “Do go on, sir.”

“Haidar. Please. An’ I know what yet thinkin’—this ain’t no loyalty test to see if yer fine wi’ breakin’ proper Imperial protocol. All right?”

“...All right—Haidar.”

He chuckled. “I knew it was gonna sound lapti in yer accent.”

“Sound what, sorry?”

“Huh. Right. Proper Basic. Uhh... it means _fancy_ , sort of.”

“Oh! That was a Huttese word, wasn’t it?”

“Huttese? Honest? Eh, I thought ‘twas jus’ Axxilan.” After a pause, he added, “But it means somethin’ good an’ bonnie, aye?”

“Yes, quite.” She teetered over the precipice of telling him that word sounded a bit like one that meant something sexual in Gungan. Better to try her chances at crude humour on another day.

 “Then we’re all good! So, back to,” Sarkli’s voice dropped to a groan, “Lieutenant Veers... Beside Lord Vader, did he poodoo-talked anyone else important?”

“Not sure if it counts, but it definitely would count if I’d seen it in an officer’s correspondence... He said, I quote, that ‘the Tarkin Doctrine has no place in academia’.”

“...’kay, one wermo question first: when I went for a greyback I was sent to an academy, an’ they all spoke very proper Basic there. They always called the place ‘academy’. But the real proper word is ‘acade _mi-ah_ ’, yer sayin’?”

It was too much ignorance to process in such a short time, let alone to answer in a coherent and inoffensive way. Kijé had to take a moment to be lost in the emptiness of the water cup, a void that mirrored her brain’s.

“I said somethin’ daft, eh?” He did not sound accusing; apologetic, rather. But she had allowed that tone to happen, and her own mind constructed the self-accusation at once.

“No no, it’s a common mistake. We mean academy as in a school; academia is... how can I put it... the entire environment of universities and higher education institutes that carry out research.”

“Like the BioWeapons Division?”

 _Biological Welfare Division, please_ , Kijé almost corrected his terminology. “In a broad sense.”

“What does it have to do wi’ the Tarkin Doctrine? Lieutenant Veers ain’t got nothin’ to do with that division.”

“It was just a figure of speech. He used it to criticise my university on Naboo for sacking and investigating a professor who had come under suspicion of anti-Imperial activity. Lieutenant Veers’ rationale was that this professor’s brilliant academic skills should have put her above the law.”

Sarkli clacked his tongue. For an instant, Kijé assumed he was doubting her account of the events: he, too, was no different from Lieutenant Veers, and she was a careless little idiot too eager to trust people—

“Y’see, me uncle would ne’er put anyone above the law. He’d not like this. At all.”

“Your uncle... You mean, the admiral?” She coughed in embarrassment. This place was not the small _Executor_ , and stars help her, she had just thought of the _Executor_ as small; at any rate, there must be boatloads of admirals around on this planet. “I mean, Admiral Piett.”

“He was jus’ a lieutenant back in the days, mind ye.”

Sarkli left the phrase as it was, as if he had forgotten to explain the rest, or if the admission that Admiral Piett had been a junior officer once carried enough of an explanation in and of itself. Kijé felt dumb for not getting it; of course, she didn’t make it worse by asking him to clarify. Silence set in over them. The grass rustled under a gust that lapped at the portico and made Kijé hug herself. Muffled but recognisable, TIE fighter patrols and transport ships rumbled overhead, matching the traffic noise from the city streets. The wind had grown colder; seeing the sunny morning outside her window and discarding the usual space-issue synthwool uniform in favour of a lighter fabric had not been the smartest move.

“Yer cold!” It wasn’t a question. “Naw more excuses, lassie. We’re headin’ to a tapcaf, an’ yer gettin’ yerself somethin’ warm.” Sarkli jumped to his feet and extended her a hand.

It was so irritating that he thought he knew what she wanted, without bothering to ask. Kijé would have tolerated it if this had been a formal setting, an interaction between a captain and a lieutenant. Since Sarkli had established, of his own initiative, that this was a most informal setting, well, fuck him; he should have asked her if she agreed with the idea, instead of assuming he could speak for both. Outer Rim gender-based discrimination at its finest. Or Outer Rim lack of basic manners.

The thoughts flashed angrily across her mind while she put her much smaller hand in his, and allowed him to pull her upright. “Thank you.”

“Got any preference for the place? Maybe somewhere where they give greybacks discounts?”

“I think they give them everywhere in this area of town.” And a NavIntel captain’s pay was higher than a basic Navy captain’s.

 _Stop it, Annice. Not even General Veers likes to squander money. You saw the face he made when they brought him the restaurant bill_. She pulled the visor of her cap lower to shield her eyes from the sun as it broke through the passing clouds. “I saw a café this way, when I arrived. It seemed nice.”

“Who better ‘n a Naboo can tell if a thing’s nice or naw, aye?”

“Thank you, sir—Haidar.” She led the way through the garden, politely refusing all his offers to carry her suitcase.

“Ye think it’s gonna rain?” asked Sarkli, glancing heavenwards. The orbital ring was barely visible in the patches of clear sky. Shuttles and transport ships appeared and disappeared through the steely-blue clouds, the exact same hue as _Lambda_ -class ships.

“The weather forecast said later today,” she replied. “It’s been so long since I last saw the rain.”

Sarkli hugged himself. The arm tattoos poked out of his right sleeve again, a fiery red black-lined dash on his forearm. “If I ne’er have to see the rain again in me life, I’ll be a happy bukee.”

She caught herself before laughing and asking what the rain could have done that had been so terrible to him. An acknowledging nod would suffice.

“Rain’s acidic on Axxila most o’ the times, y’know.”

No, she did not know. A twinge of guilt struck her. Nonsensical guilt. Why should she know? Why did she feel she should?

“Brings back some blasted gooley memories.”

“I understand.” Kijé wondered whether the word he’d used was a mangling of ‘ghoulish’ in Basic or a mangling of ‘goola’ in Huttese. Her linguistics professor would have had a field day with Captain Sarkli. His accent was cute, anyway. You didn’t hear people talk like that aboard the _Executor_ , especially not when a COMPNOR officer was within earshot. Like the rain and the grass, the clouds and the natural gravity, the sunlight and the café they crossed the street to sit into, he was a new sensation, to be savoured and treasured...

Kijé shook her head and feigned a sneeze to seem less awkward.

“Blast it, lassie, ye’ve caught a cold!”

His concern sounded so sincere she felt bad for actually being in sound health.

They found the café where Annice remembered seeing it, and none of them even asked about an inside or outside table; they went in and sat down, Sarkli following Kijé. Theirs was the only non vacant table in the whole place. Sarkli flipped the flimsi menu open and perused it with a frown and puckered lips that made him resemble a schoolboy focusing on his Engineering Foundation homework. He handed her the menu with a scoff. “Bleedin’ pile o’ poodoo. Not even a rum tea!”

“Rum tea?” At the mention of tea, Kijé’s eyes fell on that section of the menu; the options weren’t many, but they were good. The Chalactan-style white tea with caramel intrigued her.

“Aye. Best thing in the galaxy to cure a Human’s cold.”

“The MedCorps would beg to differ.” Kijé glanced around for a waiter. She noticed two Human students in high school uniforms queuing at the bar counter, manned by a bored middle-aged Human woman while a Zabrak one moved tea and caf cups all over the beverages machine. The clatter was unnerving.

Sarkli stood up and leaned over the table towards her. The high back of the chair kept Kijé from squirming away. But all he did was ask in a soft voice, “What’re ye havin’?” When she didn’t speak, he added, “I’m buyin’, don’t mind it.”

“But you don’t have to!” That slapping sensation burned her cheeks again, and her head swam. Chenda, too, had been kind to her; look how badly that had ended. Stars, it was so unfair to project those ugly memories of betrayal onto Captain Sarkli. He just trying to be a gentleman. Kijé despised herself for thinking ill of him, and the self-loathing coexisted in perfect harmony with the mistrust against this poor stranger, whose only fault was to remind her of a bad person. _Sweet Shiraya, strike me and turn me into stone_.

“True, I don’t have to. But y’know, it’s nice to do a thing jus’ ‘cause ye can an’ want to do it, ‘stead of ‘cause ye _hafta_ do it. Ye follow me?”

If his accent got any thicker, she soon would not be able to follow him. Sarkli had tried to speak better and clearer when interacting with the general. Kijé wasn’t sure whether to be hurt or flattered he had reverted to his natural state in her company. “I get the feeling, yes,” she said. It wasn’t a lie.

“So, what’re ye havin’?”

“I... a Chalactan-style...” She reread the menu once again, then flipped the flimsi over and pointed at it to Sarkli. “...white tea with caramel.” It must sound so stupid and weird to someone who was used to having alcohol-fortified tea. Or maybe even spice-fortified tea. They drank that stuff all across the Outer Rim.

“Hm-hm, aye. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Kijé watched him go, then realized she’d forgotten to specify if she wanted a large or medium sized mug. Sarkli marched over to the counter and spoke a few words to the apathetic Human. Her eyes glinted with regained sentiency; sliding his elbows on the counter, Sarkli turned to work his magic onto the Zabrak, who threw back her horned head in a laugh while her hands danced over the beverages machine. She picked a huge mug from a rack overhead, and hooked a smaller one onto her pinky finger.

Both barwomen were smiling by the time Sarkli had paid and sashayed back to the table, carrying the small and the big mug in all their smoking glory. He placed the big mug in front of Kijé. “Enjoy.”

The scent that blew in her face made her mouth water and her eyelids drop in bliss. “Thank you, sir—Haidar.”

“An’ if yer wonderin’ why I gotcha the bigger cup, that’s ‘cause ye deserve the Force to give ye somethin’ nice for puttin’ up wi’ that wee sleemo, Lieutenant Veers.”

She blew steam off her tea and inhaled the hot aroma to fill up her lungs. “I’d rather it be Shiraya to dispense rewards, if you don’t mind.”

Sarkli stuck a thumb up, using his free hand to lift the cup of caf. Surely it tasted better than the caf on warships, but Kijé felt a bit grossed out by it anyway. Sarkli sipped on it, burning hot as the stuff might be, licked his lips and said, “Sorry, sorry. I know it ain’t politically correct, but it’s just a... figure of speech, ye called it, aye?, for us Rimworlders I mean.” He had the common sense to lower his voice as he ventured into riskier space, “An’ of course I mean the Force. Didnae even know ‘twas a Jedi thing ‘til Navy trainin’ told me.”

“Well, you have made it to Naval Intelligence. I doubt they would let in anyone who genuinely supports that old fanatical cult.”

“Naw way in the galaxy, eh. Was that Naboo professor Lieutenant Veers defended a Jedi sympathiser?”

“Alderaan sympathiser.”

“Honest?”

“Hm-hm.”

Sarkli groaned so loudly that the Zabrak barwoman called from the counter, “Hey, Captain, is the caf too bitter?”

“I like it this way, lassie, naw worries. Was jus’ complainin’ ‘bout the latest match o’ the Eriadu Patriots, y’know.”

“Ahh, in that case I feel you, mate. Pour some sugar in there, you need it.”

“D’ye like shockball, Annice?” Sarkli asked, pulling the sugar box from the centre of the table towards himself. Her name rolled off nicely on his tongue, with closed vowels and a nasal n.

To please him, she embellished a truth of quickly zapped over sports holochannels, “I have watched some bits and pieces of matches, every once in a while. I’m not very keen on sports.”

“That’s fine an’ dandy. I hate shockball. Jus’ said the first thing that sprang to me mind.”

Kijé leaned forward, breathing in sweet tea scent at every soft-spoken word. “Do you suspect that barista wouldn’t have approved of disparaging comments about Alderaan?”

“I don’t like to jab a finger in a strill’s eye even if the strill’s lyin’ down for a tummy rub. Anyway, you better ne’er piss off the sentient who’s pourin’ ye a glass; ye ne’er know if the rum’s really rum.” He laughed. “I swear that stuff ‘bout the strill sounds better in Mando. It’s a proverb.”

“Are you a Mandalorian? I thought Admiral Piett was Axxilan.”

“Aye, but we have Mandos on Axxila. Plenty o’ them, rowdy gits,” Sarkli shrugged, “but naw worse ‘n anyone else o’er there.” He drank up the rest of his caf, without adding sugar. “How’s yer tea? Good? It smells nice.”

“Oh.” Kijé reached for the mug. Had it not been for her gloves, it would have burned her hands. But she picked it up and took a hasty sip, barely wetting her upper lip with the scalding sweet liquid. “It’s very good. Thank you again.”

“Hah, perfect! So it’s safe for me to leave ye alone wi’ it, aye?” Sarkli pointed at the HoloNet screen over the counter. “I hafta go back to work.”

“Just like Lieutenant Veers, only you’re nice and he isn’t,” Kijé whispered, smiling into the mug.

“Eh, I’m glad I’m better ‘n that sleemo, but what does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing, really, I was just thinking... Well, Lieutenant Veers seemed to be having great fun verbally bullying me, but all of a sudden he looked at the time and left. Like if he’d just remembered he had something important to do. Whatever it was, I hope he arrived late, and that it got him in trouble.”

Sarkli whistled. “Remind me ne’er to get on yer bad side, lassie!”

“Sorry.”

“Naw apologies at all. An’ if ye care for a pint tonight at seven local at the Green Rancor, please know _I_ don’t mind if yer runnin’ a bit late.”

Kijé’s hands went limp and nearly dropped the mug, not because of the heat. When she steadied her hold again, a few droplets stung her through the uniform sleeves. “The schedule my superiors sent me made no mention of... this.” Her guts twisted at the idiocy of what she had just blurted out.

“I’m sure superiors in the Press Corps ain’t too keen on tellin’ their people who to date, as long as they ain’t no Rebel sympathiser. An’ ye wouldnae run this risk wi’ me. But—eh, if yer busy or jus’ don’t want, that’s fine.” He picked up his cup, flashed her a smile and a bye, went up to the counter and delivered the dishware in the red hands of the grinning Zabrak, who thanked him profusely. So did the cashier. On his way to the door, Sarkli waved Kijé one final goodbye, to which she responded with a dumb smile and an awkward hand-waving, like if she were trying to swat an insect away.

The door shut behind Sarkli; Kijé cast a few furtive glances around and yes, she was the only customer left now. How had she not noticed as long as Sarkli had been here?

The tea had cooled off enough to allow careful sipping. It was minty and caramel-sweet, the taste just as good as the scent, but she couldn’t focus on that delight and gulped it in bigger draughts than the temperature should have allowed.

 _Shiraya help me, I have a date_. She had let a man talk her into accepting a date. Dammit, dammit, double dammit. With a sigh, she put the mug down and kneaded her throbbing temples. She could always send Sarkli a message politely explaining that she was a lot more into women... but that would be awkward. She should have made that lifesaving detail clear from the get-go. Oce again, she had to be a tongue-tied idiot. It was so cowardly and dumb and an instance of toying with a good man’s emotions—and on flowed the litany of self-loathing, until it finally started to ebb.

Sip after sip, the tea soothed her fretful mood. By the time Kijé got to the powdery bottom of the cup, she started to think that maybe it would be like when General Veers had ordered her to train with the Thunderers: terrifying at first, then the bright event the rest of her weekdays revolved around and received shine from, like planets around their sun. It was hard to believe she had dreaded something she now loved (something that had gotten General Veers and Captain Visdei to like her) in much the same way she was now dreading a date with Captain Sarkli.

The baristas were ignoring her; they seemed bored and unsmiling again. Kijé tiptoed out of the café. Down the street, the first rain drops brushed her cheeks and her tea-stained lips. She avoided looking at the faces of passers-by, but their clothes were impossible to miss. Uniforms went arm-in-arm with civilian dresses, sometimes holding onto each other so close it was a marvel those couples could walk at all. Sweet stars, was she supposed to wear a uniform or civilian clothes tonight?

The dilemma nagged her all the way back to her small room in the barracks. HoloNet dating advice sites were of little help. She browsed and closed several—on anonymous navigation mode—in growing frustration, while she worked on editing the footage and sending it to the competent powers that be.

Maybe the general could help a distraction after the way his son had treated him... Stars, what a ridiculous thought; the Hero of Hoth was unbreakable. He’d never wallow in self-inflicted anguish like stupid weak Lieutenant Kijé. Well, she did have a pretext to compose his comm number: informing him that the footage had been processed and would soon be broadcast.

The comm started beeping; the landline was clear, the ringtone a string quartet snippet, jaunty and danceable.

After delivering the service information, she would ask the general if he had anything to communicate to Captain Sarkli; she would be very happy to be the message carrier, since she just happened to have to meet him tonight—

The music stopped and the general barked through the comm, “If you are who I think you are, don’t bother unless you mean to apologise.”

Kijé was struck dumb at first, but not upset. The anger was not directed at her. “Sir,” she said, “I am quite glad to claim I am not Lieutenant Veers.”


	13. Chapter 13

At each step, with each crunch of Zev’s boots on the pebbles and the soft grass, thinking grew harder and harder. His brain functioned in flashes and bursts, one moment in the present under the sunlight, the next in a dimly lit place where he was screaming and thrashing and punching about. He had been there. It was a closed space, a closet on a Star Destroyer or in a barrack-room. Maybe a detention block cell. Definitely a cell.

Something or someone was holding him down, he felt their weight on his chest.

His mind tore itself out of the hallucination. Sunlight, grass, clouds, ships in the sky, the city around him, reality. Freedom... Freedom, yeah, sure. The constriction was still there, a gravity pull that made it hard to breathe.

He had to leave Kuat. No matter to where, he just had to get off this planet and as far away as possible from his father, as fast as possible. Sweet Goddesses, if the Rebellion saw that awful footage before they got to meet him in person, see that at heart he was a Rebel as well, they would never allow him in to their ranks. They wouldn’t trust him. How could he blame them? He had let the Butcher of Hoth hug him like a little child. Even that trivial an act of resistance had been too much for him. Shameful, shameful.

Without really knowing how he’d gotten there, Zev found himself on the sidewalk, in front of a hovertram stop, a few paces behind a queue of Human younglings in school uniforms. A nice array of how widely Human skin tones and body builds could vary, but it would never make up for the glaring lack of any non-Human colours and shapes. He had no idea where the tram was headed, but as soon as the car stopped and the door slid open he strode past the queuing schoolkids and boarded the car first.

Nobody said anything. Neither the driver nor the younglings. Bloody cowards. In the corner of his eye, he saw one of them standing at attention. Bloody brainwashed cowards.

Zev flopped onto a seat, gritting his teeth at the noise—a shouty mixture of laughter and chatter; why the fuck did they need to shout?—the younglings made as they took the hovertram by storm. Academy cadets would have been more polite. The Imperial-ness of this thought punched him hard in the guts. He rested his head against the window, rubbing his eyes to discourage the tears and pinching his temples to ease the pressure of a mounting tension headache.

There was nobody to fool. The Empire had turned him into one of them. One of Commander Laibach’s lot, a torturer with a sense of humour. Or one of his father’s lot, a glorified mass murderer with the barefacedness to claim love and honour for his disgusting self.

A youngling somewhere behind him said something about her mother, and despite his best judgment, Zev turned his attention there. “—so she’s taking me to the parade on Benduday. She told me to tell you you can come along if your parents are okay with it, okay?”

Zev took a deep, hissing breath through a suddenly constricted throat. Mom had never taken him to a parade unless his father had been present. No doubt he had demanded it. She had been clever and careful and hidden her true thoughts, but Zev knew she didn’t like his father. Not as much as Veers assumed she did. It was fair; she was too good and too intelligent for him, absolutely nothing of a brain-dead officer groupie who fawned over a well-ironed uniform with a war criminal inside.

Yet, the way they often sat huddled together on the living room sofa, the drowsy smile on mom’s face, Veers’ arm around her waist... Love was a very safe assumption, by all the observable signs. The memory gave Zev goosebumps. Mom was too good for him, too intelligent, but even good and intelligent people—even cute girls who studied at Theed University—could be fooled. They could be the fucking worst gullible people in the galaxy. Mom was no exception. He had no idea what she had found attractive in Veers, beside the obscenely biological side of their relationship.

“ _Next stop_ ,” the pre-recorded voice of the public transport poked into his reveries, “ _South Nkllon Street. Doors open to the right_.”

“Ohhh, Penna, look!” a youngling cried out so loudly that Zev looked up to. “Baron Biscuit!” She sat up on her knees on the seat, pointing to her friend at the smiling sign of the fast food restaurant outside the tram window.

The other youngling puffed up her chest. “My dad programmed the droids that make the food there.”

“But it’s not the same thing as cooking!”

“It is.”

“No.”

Zev’s mind drifted while the argument escalated. The observable signs of love, though—Veers used to be good at giving out those. Cuddling, kissing, whispering, and also cooking; mom had tried to teach him to make the sweet toska rice, and when he came home on leave sometimes he made it for dinner, taking the pot off the hot plate as soon as he heard mom walk in back from work. Mom always smiled and praised him like it was the best sweet toska rice in the galaxy. Zev was used to his grandmother’s, _the_ best sweet toska rice in the galaxy. The one Veers made was bantha fodder. It puzzled his child self that mom could like it. His adult self knew better, knew the reality was creepier. She was in his hold. He had tricked her—manipulated her into believing he was a man worth loving.

The hovertram halted. A holoscreen at the stop projected an image of snowtroopers marching in column, blasters at present-arms against their armour-plated chests, faceless Rebel soldiers in winter gear and goggles that only left their screaming mouths visible. The text at the top and bottom of the hologram appeared in backwards view from his line of sight, but Zev had seen enough such posters to know the gist of all: _THE EMPIRE IS AWESOME, ENLIST TODAY_. Several schoolkids flocked out of the tram and paused to gape at the poster.

This was what Veers had wanted for him. Ever since he had been around the same age as these younglings.

He wanted to vomit. When the hovertram lurched forwards, regaining its run, Zev’s stomach made a leap as well, and he clamped his mouth shut with both palms, so tight over the lower part of his face that it blocked his breathing. Maybe, maybe, he should just walk into the Imperial spaceport, ask a sentry stormtrooper to lend him their blaster, and gun down as much Imperial scum as he could before they took him down in turn.

The spaceport...

Zev leapt to his feet, gulping in air and banging a knee against the seat in front of him. He peered at the tram line map; _Imperial Spaceport_ , there it was. Three stops away from here.

It was now or never again. He had to get off-world before the entire galaxy, and the Rebellion along with it, saw that footage.

He already felt watched. He looked down and met a young schoolboy’s eyes, peering up at him from the seat he was standing above. “You kicked me,” said the boy.

Zev couldn’t muster a reply. Not even the simplest _sorry, kid_.

The boy carried on the conversation himself, “You smell like my alien friend.”

“What in blazes—” A vision and the accompanying tactile sensations flashed across Zev’s mind: his face wedged between Loire’s breasts, his mouth panting on her sweat and tasting it, her hands stroking his hair, the scale-like texture of her skin against his cheek and under his palms.

“I have to be his friend because we’re in the same phaseball team,” the boy prattled on. “He’s not very good and he’s fat, but the coach says it’s not polite to call sentients fat unless they’re Hutts because for them it’s a compliment, so we just say that he’s out of shape. So he sweats a lot and that stinks up—”

“Silence in the ranks!” Zev blurted out. He hadn’t meant it to be a drill sergeant’s bellow, but it came out that way. The entire tram car heard it; all passengers fell silent. They also all turned to stare at him. The speciesist little shit who had provoked Zev’s reaction gawked at the result of his words; his eyes were huge, his lower jaw seemed ready to drop.

Zev slumped back down, fixing his whole attention on the black plastic back of the seat in front of him. He wanted to scratch it, but he had nothing sharp on himself and he’d long since outgrown the habit of scratching at unblemished surfaces with his nails until blood flowed from his fingertips. The silence buzzed in his ears; when someone in the back of the car started muttering something again, he let out a small sigh of relief. _But they’re talking about you. Surely they are. You made yourself strange. Suspicious_. Nonsense, nonsense—nobody would dream of reporting an Imperial officer. He was one of the people turned to when they wanted to report someone else.

He repressed a groan as the feminine droid voice announced the next stop; three to go before the spaceport. At least, it was at this one that the speciesist kid alighted. Zev glanced sideways at him, watching him shuffle his feet and haul his backpack to the nearest open doors. The backpack was black and—Zev realised—shaped like Lord Vader’s mask.

A wave of dizziness overcame him. His stomach churned, the vice around his temples gave a sharp squeeze, and he went slick with perspiration underneath his uniform. Despite the sunny day, he felt so cold he was shivering by the time the tram finally floated to a stop by the Imperial Spaceport station. He didn’t want to move anymore; he wanted to curl up on the seat, close his eyes, and wake up to a galaxy without the Empire and without his father.

“ _Current station: Imperial Spaceport. Doors open to the left_.”

It wouldn’t happen. Ever. Unless he dragged himself to his feet, joined the Rebellion, and brought the Empire down once and for all.

The short jog to the spaceport compound didn’t melt the cold away. He felt greasy and uncomfortable in his sweated-out clothes; as he ran a hand down the left side of his face, through the glove he touched angry swollen zits and spiky stubble. If he looked like shit in the footage, good. But here in the polished airy halls of the ‘port, teeming with soldiers in spotless armours and uniforms, that might be a problem. Officers loved to take out their workday’s frustrations on shabby-looking underlings. He’d wanted to do that himself to stormtroopers or marines or anyone lower-ranking than him, but never could bring himself to act on it.

He made his way towards the nearest turnstile and took an orderly spot in the fast-advancing queue, trying not to cast glances at the stormtroopers mounting guard a few paces to the side.

The officer in front of him passed through the turnstile. The column glowed a happy green when the transparisteel barrier pulled back and then forward into place again. Happy green. It would be happy green. Nothing to worry about. Zev stepped within range of the sensor. He was holding his breath. The sensor beeped and he felt the code cylinder in his tunic pocket thrum in response. Happy green—

The sensor let out a dissonant beep and flashed a red light. The barrier didn’t budge.

As he stared down at the unmoving transparisteel panel, Zev imagined keeling over it. It was a very attractive thought.

“Move along, please,” said someone behind him.

Zev grabbed the transparisteel panel and tried to shake it open. “I would, but it’s not working!” He caught a glance of the empty turnstile to the right of this one. He stepped in front of it, bumping onto the next person in the rightful queue. “Sorry,” Zev mumbled without looking at them, “the other turnstile isn’t working, just one moment...” Negative beep and red light, again. A shiver ran down his spine and gave a dangerous shake to the contents of his stomach. “What in blazes does this mean?” he screamed. He hadn’t meant to, but scream he did. A moment later, adding insult to the injury, an embarrassed blush burned across his face.

The ruckus attracted a stormtrooper non-com at the other end of the turnstile. “Is something wrong, Lieutenant, sir?”

“Yes, evidently wrong. This blasted thing isn’t working!” Zev slapped the top of the column, and had to bite back a pained snarl.

“And it will work even less if you punch it,” remarked an elderly captain with an disapproving scowl, passing through the left side turnstile.

Something in that commanding presence chastened Zev. The years at the academy had succeeded in drilling discipline into his free sentient’s soul, after all. Awful as it was, though, the pang of shame cleared enough rage out of his mind for him to remember he had a part to play. He huffed. “This is absurd. I was here just yesterday and did not have any problems!”

“May I check your clearances, sir?” asked the non-com.

Zev handed her the code cylinder. The non-com studied it through the helmet lenses; Zev imagined the inner visor extracting and visualising data that the stormtrooper browsed through by blinking her eyelids. Wearing stormtrooper armour and helmets had always given him a headache, not all of which was due to revulsion for the Empire.

“You do not have clearance to enter these premises, sir,” the non-com declared at last, and handed the cylinder back to Zev.

His hand were shaking as he took it. “I do not _what?_ ”

“This spaceport is currently under heightened security level, sir. Only personnel registered for work or travel may enter.”

“I do need to travel. I am on shore leave. I have to go home, to Denon.”

The trooper tilted her bucket head a little, as if she were trying to get a better look at his shit face. Or going through his personal file, although he doubted she was allowed to access those data. “Denon. Lieutenant Veers, sir, are you related to—”

“General Veers is my father, yes.” He managed a smirk. “Yes, Iron Max Veers, the Hero of Hoth, that one. Not just a coincidence.” To know certain things, you didn’t have to rummage through an officer’s personal file. The personnel of the dirtside branches was as informed on Veers’ every exploit (real or legendary or propaganda-embellished) as fangirls on those of their HoloNet celebrity crush.

The non-com stood up straighter and lowered her vocoderised voice. “It is a honour to meet you, sir.” She pushed a button on the back of the turnstile, and the barrier opened. “Please tell the general that Forn Company from the 14th Kuat City Garrison Battalion wishes him all the best and a speedy recovery.”

“I will.” Zev staggered past the turnstile; despite the wobbly knees and a fast-sharpening need to piss, he did mean what she told the trooper next, “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Have a good day and glory to the Emperor, sir,” she replied at the speed of a machine gun.

Zev left as fast as he could without breaking into a frenzied run. He stopped to check a departure holoboard, then headed towards the gate to the next off-world transport. The pointers were easy to follow and there were conveyor belts and escalators across the spaceport; the walk, however, was long. At every holoboard he checked the time; five standard minutes, eight, ten, eleven, twelve, fifteen, sixteen, twenty... He was sweating in his uniform again. His heart thumped with a disproportionate quickness to the physical effort.

Vending machines tempted him along the way—just a brief pause to rest his feet and his lungs, get a sip of water or tea or caf, or a snack... Zev marched on towards the gate. When he shambled there, he found a waiting room with all seats occupied by officers and their suitcases, many of them casting all too frequent forlorn glances at the holoboard above the counter.

The Aurebesh on the holoboard stated the name of the transport and the destination—Quellor system; a bit too close to the Core Worlds for comfort, and not exactly a haven for Rebel sympathisers anymore since the local Moff had had so many of them gunned down on a public square, but better than Kuat. Boarding was due to commence in sixteen standard minutes.

Zev forced himself to stand still until his heart rate had slowed down a bit. Then he quickly stuffed a few strands of unwashed hair underneath his cap, straightened his belt, and marched to the counter. A lone technician was manning the console, and levelled on him an indifferent stare. The Imperial HR services might as well have put a droid in her place; that would have been friendlier.

“Excuse me,” Zev said in what he hoped sounded enough like a firm, commanding tone, “I need to reserve a place on this transport.”

“Impossible—” The tech’s eyes flicked to the right upper corner of his chest. “—Lieutenant,” she drawled the word a little, and Zev was certain it was no quirk of her accent but a deliberate mockery. “The roster of crew and passengers for this transport is already full.”

Someone cried out from the waiting lounge, “Then why don’t you clear it for take-off?”

The tech didn’t bat an eye. “Were you supposed to board it?”

“Well... yes, since I’m asking.”

From apathetic, the tech’s facial mimics turned into something closer to annoyance. “What I need to know, _Lieutenant_ ,” again that hackles-raising drawl, “is whether you are registered as allowed to board the transport.”

“I am a COMPNOR officer. We don’t need registration.”

“Security measures demand you do.”

“Since _when_?”

“The directive has been enacted starting from today at 4 IST.”

“And I have been stuck here ever since!” another voice recriminated from farther off in the lounge. “I could already be on Hosnian Prime by now!”

“What in the Goddesses’ holy names is this directive?” Zev said through gritted teeth.

The tech typed on the console. A smaller holoscreen activated on the counter, displaying a three-paragraphs warning sign with the Imperial cog at the top and General Shale’s signature at the bottom. Zev squinted and leaned in to read it, but the letters quivered and meshed under his eyes. It took him a couple passes to make sense of the damn thing, and the sense was bad news: all travel temporarily interdicted to Imperial personnel who were not logged on an outbound ship’s muster rolls.

He turned again to the tech and made an effort to sound calm and menacing, a thought police officer inspiring a suitable modicum of fear. “I am not required to register. My office never informed me of these restrictions.”

“Well, that doesn’t authorise you to jump the queue. To where and on what ship were you supposed to travel?”

Zev ignored the question and pumped up his offence at the quip. “I am not jumping any blasted queue! I am a COMPNOR officer and I just need a ride off-world, is that so utterly unmanageable?”

“Please show me your code cylinder.”

“What for?”

“I need to verify your identity.”

And check if he was logged in anywhere as passenger or crew—which he was not. Zev laughed. A braying sound that rankled his own nerves. “Do I seem like a Rebel spy to you?”

“Please show me your code cylinder, Lieutenant.”

Huffing, he gave in.

The tech inserted the cylinder into a port and resumed the typing. When she finished, she frowned at him. “Are you Lieutenant Zevulon Veers?”

“ _That_ Veers of Hoth is my father, yes.”

“You aren’t listed anywhere in our logs. How did you get into this spaceport?”

“Through the turnstiles at the entrance. I walked in.” Zev tried name-dropping again, “What did you think, that a Titan dropship had dumped me in? Wrong Veers, if that’s the case.”

“You are not authorised to be here.”

Maybe the wording he’d used was too subtle...?

She wasn’t handing him back the code cylinder. He should have protested but his jaw was locked, his tongue welded to the bottom of his mouth. All that fear allowed him to do was shake his head in a jerky motion and strain his lips into an incredulous simper.

The tech’s hands moved on the keyboard that Zev couldn’t see. “I’m calling up a patrol; they will escort you out of these premises. Please wait here.”

Zev stood on his toes and bent over the counter. Bless the Veers genes for the height advantage. He stretched out an arm and, while the tech flinched away, his palm slammed on the comm button, shutting down the call mid-beep.

He glowered at the tech in the eyes. She flinched a few centimetres further back on her chair. Since she was an Imperial, there was no guilt in scaring her—or at least, not too much guilt. The sentients he’d watched—he’d been _made_ to watch being interrogated, they would shrink back on their cots to the wall, or in a corner of the cell... And if he didn’t do something now, soon there would be him in their place.

“I just wanted to go home, okay?” he pleaded. _Pleaded_. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. “I couldn’t travel outside Kuat because it turned out my father was here and we hadn’t met in over one year, and—you see, it’s the festival of the dead on Denon.” It wasn’t starting until three standard months. “It’s important for us.” It was important for mom’s religion—about thirty millions sentients on a population of nearly nine billions. “I have to honour my late mother.” He withdrew his arm and wiped his eyes with the wrist of his sleeve. “Sorry I snapped.” Because showing weakness in front of Imperials was pathetic. “It’s just an important thing.”

The tech opened her mouth and drew in a breath, glared thus open-mouthed at him for a few seconds, then grunted and whispered, “I’ll see what can be done. Please understand you’re pressing your luck here, son.”

Zev nodded. “Thank you.”

After another glare, the tech got down to typing, each key snapping like a blaster shot. A most unwanted remorse gnawed at the edge of Zev’s mind. For whatever kriffing reason, it muttered in Captain Sarkli’s voice: _Always so good at making folks like you, aye?_

“There is a ship bound for Denon that leaves in two standard hours.” The tech’s tone was acidic, as if it irked her to be able to help him. Arsehole. Zev stopped regretting having been rude to her. The tech went on, “Gate 44. If you go and ask there, try to be polite.”

The polite thing to do for the greater good of the galaxy would have been to carpet-bomb this spaceport, and not leave one survivor. Without a word of thanks, Zev headed back down the corridor he’d come from. Not long into it, a glance and then a frustrated gawk at a sign informed him that Gate 44 was the other way. There also were no alternative routes through the corridor that would spare him to pass in front of the tech’s counter. He resolved to wait until someone else went in that direction, so he could walk at their flank and use them as shields, but nobody turned up; footfalls would clatter nearer, then farther again down some other aisle. The Empire had to be fucking kidding him. Mocking him. Minutes passed and the transport to Denon at Gate 44 slid closer to the top of the departures list.

Perhaps he should give up. Go back to his flat, be fed an elderly Chagrian lady’s idea of Human food, and knock at Loire’s door. Wait for the HoloNet broadcasting the Veers father-son emotional reunion. Watch himself in Veers’ arms, and be watched. Complimented for having a famous parent, and such a loving one at that. Forced to smile as Petra and Silas and Loire heaped praise on the Butcher of Hoth, the man who had ruined mom’s life and his own.

As soon as Zev took the first steps down the corridor, a wave of nausea swept over him. He wasn’t sweating and had no idea if this area of the spaceport was air-conditioned, but his underfed body under the uniform was stiff with cold.

He barely saw the counter and the tech there in the corner of his eye. Of course the tech didn’t miss this golden chance and yelled so that the whole of Kuat City could hear, “Lieutenant Veers, you went the wrong way!”

Zev didn’t grace her with an answer. Walking faster was already an acknowledgment to the ass-burn she had delivered.

His legs were an infantryman’s, as some instructor eager to please his father had once remarked, and they took him to Gate 44 in ten standard minutes. It was on a subterranean level, artificially lit and reminiscent of a starship’s interiors; not an Imperial starship, though, for the dominant hues were clean, eye-soothing whites and light blues. The sea of olive drab uniforms in the waiting lounge ruined the aesthetic effect.

This lounge was even more crowded than the one where Zev had made a fool of himself. Some officers were sitting on the floor, a queue had formed in front of the vending machine, the air smelled of caf (not the fine caf of the civilian shops, but the familiar cheap instant swill you got by feeding fifty credcents to the machine) and buzzed with conversations. Many passengers were at the comm with blurry holograms of family members or friends or whatever.

“I know, dad, I know,” one was mumbling to a bearded elderly man’s hologram, “I’m so sorry. At this point, the best thing would be that you start the funeral without me.”

Zev’s feet dragged to a halt by that officer, who sat cross-legged at the edge of a bench.

The officer lowered his voice, “I won’t keep Daru away from eternal rest one minute more. And I swear the first thing I do once I make it to Spirana is head to the cemetery and pray on her grave.”

At every word the officer said, a dark emotion sank its claws deeper and deeper into Zev’s guts. He wished the officer’s father would get angry, but the holographic bust nodded. “You don’t have to beat yourself up, boy. Believe me, everyone here knows you’ve tried—”

“Who authorised this conversation?” Zev cut in.

At once, for a few seconds, there was silence around him. The officer winced, almost dropping the holocomm off his knees, and it wasn’t until he’d taken a gander at Zev’s rank badge and reassuringly non ISB white uniform that he relaxed. “I was informing my family that I won't be able to attend my sister’s funeral. My transport was supposed to leave yesterday but got cancelled.”

“No communications with civilians are allowed in these premises unless under explicit permission of the garrison headquarters.” Falling back into his officer persona and giving the greyback a taste of his own medicine fed Zev a rush of glee.

“Are _you_ the garrison headquarters, Lieutenant?”

The glee washed away. Zev glanced at the rank badge on the officer’s chest. A major. Fuck. “No, but I am COMPNOR, sir. Issuing such reminders is my duty, sir.”

“Get lost.”

“Yes, sir.” Zev clicked his heels, blushing furiously under his stubble, then scrammed to his original destination.

At the counter he found another tech, an officer, and two marines. Fresh fear fluttered in his stomach and he wanted to back off, but they had already seen him. Were staring, in fact. The officer, a paunchy captain who bore a striking resemblance to the late Rebel leader Saw Gerrera with the addition of a white handlebar moustache, peered over the counter to better appraise him cap-to-boots and boots-to-cap. Like several drill sergeants in Zev’s earlier days, he did not seem well impressed.

It was survival instinct—he damn hoped it was survival instinct; if the academy and COMPNOR had managed to ingrain automatic respect for the hierarchy into him, it might be too late for a defection—that made Zev straighten up his slouching posture.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” the captain inquired.

“I respectfully request a passage to Denon, sir.” Speaking in militarese was almost a relief after interacting with his father, Kijé, Sarkli, the speciesist kid, the stormtrooper non-com and the tech. Like crouching into a well-known hideout. “I am on shore leave and wish to spend it on my homeworld, sir.”

“Don’t we all, son.” The captain bared his teeth under the moustache at the tech. “You said there were no passengers left. Have you double-checked the logs when I told you or just pretended to so I would be content?”

The tech cast Zev a bloodshot, dark-circled look of exhaustion and hatred. “State your name and operating number, please.”

“Veers.” It failed to produce any visible effect on both the captain and the tech. “Lieutenant Zevulon Veers.” This was _guaranteed_ not to produce any effect. “WH-10019-P.”

The tech rapped the string of letters and numbers onto the keyboard, and frowned at the computer’s response. Zev’s heart picked up its quick march tempo again.

“You are neither on the crew roster nor on the passengers list,” the tech said. It was an accusation.

“In that case,” the captain interjected, “get lost, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, look here,” said the tech. “No Lieutenant Zevulon Veers is registered in the daily logs _at all_.”

“I respectfully suggest there might be a spelling mistake; it’s a bit of an uncommon name, after all. Zerek esk vev usk leth—”

“And what in blazes are you doing here?” the captain cut him.

Zev swallowed. His throat was so dry. “Travel to my homeworld of Denon, sir, and spend my shore leave there.”

“Fancy that. When did you register for this transport?” The captain’s steely stare bore straight through him, through his blatant lies and what was left of his resolve. A full metal jacket leaving death and destruction along its trajectory through tender organic matter.

“I suppose I never did, but—”

“You _suppose_ you never did? Son, what sort of Huttfucked balderdash is this? Moncey, stop making that disgruntled face; on Corulag, neither ‘balderdash’ nor ‘Huttfucked’ are swear words.”

The tech’s disgruntled face grew more disgruntled.

Based on the few Corulag officers Zev had had the displeasure of knowing, he was disinclined to trust the captain’s word on that; he also was in no mood for detecting sarcasm. “The fact is, sir, I really must travel to Denon. It’s an urgent family matter.” Had his father ever even tried to plead like this with his superiors?  Veers had sworn he had, but was denied the leave permit anyway. _Oh yes, he tried so hard!_ , Zev’s maternal grandmother used to say. _I don’t buy it. Who does he think he’s fooling? He’s an officer, a war hero... Doesn’t he have enough guts to tell them to sod off and—_

“An urgent family matter,” the captain aped his tone.

Zev flushed, but didn’t respond to the provocation.

“Like three quarters of the sentients gathered in this room, who have sat through delay after delay for hours. Even Moncey here would rather prefer be home with his husband and his kid, wouldn’t you, Moncey?”

For whatever damn reason, it was at Zev that the tech glared—as if he could sense that the shabby lieutenant in front of him was the original responsible one for this mess. “I sure would,” the tech growled.

“But then you should understand—you see, my mother is dying—”

The captain slammed a gloved palm on the counter. Zev yelped and nearly jumped backwards.

“You claimed to be General Veers’ brat,” the captain was growling as well now. “And Veers has been a widower for about ten years.”

As if he’d been injected with tetanus toxin, Zev’s jaw locked hard, his teeth gritted. How did this bastard even know? Could he be that he was friends with Veers...?

He flinched out of his thoughts as the stormtroopers moved at a captain’s nod; they flanked him and if he moved he felt the mouth of their blasters against his shoulder blades. All the blood seemed to drain away from his body, leaving a sweat-slick cold nausea in its wake. “This is unnecessary,” he squeaked. “I... I did nothing.”

“Private, get me his code cylinder.”

A gloved, white-armoured hand reached to Zev’s chest. He slapped his own to protect himself, smothering a cry behind his teeth. Somehow, he turned that grimace into a smile. “Here it is, sir,” he said as politely as he could. He slipped the cylinder out of its pocket and, with a fluid yet careful motion to show confidence and a studied lack of aggressive intentions, gave it to the captain. At any moment, he expected the bone-breaking crash of a blaster butt on his skull.

Once plugged into the terminal, the cylinder proved that Zev was indeed Lieutenant Zevulon Veers, and indeed the kid of _that_ Veers. He could read the puzzlement spelled out on the captain’s and even the tech’s faces. It made him feel a little bit proud, and a great deal uneasy.

“What would your father think if he caught you trying to lie your way onto a transport, Lieutenant?” the captain asked. Asked, not growled. Zev also noticed the shift from ‘son’ to ‘lieutenant’. Disgusting as it had been to be addressed as the former, the latter was a worrisome sign. A prelude to this captain ratting him out to Veers, or worse, to the ISB.

“No. Please. Don’t tell him.”

“Why in blazes didn’t you just book a place on the transport like any sane sentient?”

Oh, but he had. It wasn’t his fault if a Naval Intelligence inside man had blown it up before it could take off. “It was a bit of a sudden decision—”

“Sir, take a look,” the tech said.

The captain leaned over to read whatever the tech was pointing at on his computer. The tech glanced up for a moment, shooting Zev a malignant little sneer.

What the captain regarded Zev with was a nerf hair short of murder. “This spaceport is under lockdown, and you entered without permission. How in the nine wet hells did you get in here, Lieutenant?”

“I... told a stormtrooper at the entrance who my father is and she let me in.” Zev wasn’t sorry about ratting her out. She was just a buckethead, idolising a war criminal and serving a tyranny. A trifling military punishment was the bare minimum of what she deserved. “I thought my code cylinder was just malfunctioning?”

The captain pulled the cylinder out of the terminal. He didn’t return it to Zev. “Take him to the guardhouse.”

“What—hey, no, leave me!” Zev squirmed in the stormtroopers’ hold; his arms ended up gathered tight behind his back, and he heard the click and pinch of a pair of stun cuffs around his wrists. He planted his feet on the floor where he stood, then mentally thanked the gruelling PE hours at the academy and both his parents’ genes for having turned him into a strong lad whom two stormtroopers had trouble budging. “Captain, sir, please,” he tried insisting, “if you just let me comm the general—”

“Another word and I am comming the ISB.”

The stormtroopers didn’t give Zev a chance to even try. Not that he had any wish to try again and dig himself deeper into trouble, anyway. He stopped resisting and let himself be dragged away. In passing, he noticed the waiting lounge’s populace of officers staring in his direction. He kept his head down, for fear of meeting again the eyes of the grief-stricken major from Spirana. Someone—thankfully not the major—said aloud, “That’ll teach you spoiled brats to jump the queue!”

He hadn’t meant to struggle, but he did. He wasn’t conscious of what motions his jerking arms did, just that at once the stun shock pierced through his body, leaving him blind and limp and panting. Had it not been for the troopers’ unmerciful hold on his arms, he would have sunken to his knees. Fuck’s sake, had they set the cuffs to stun a Human or a Wookiee?

The walk to the detention block was long, though, and he recovered long before the door yawned open and the bare, poorly lit, grey interior of his cell welcomed him. Zev stood still and quiet as the troopers removed the stun cuffs. He knew what to expect next: a shove down the two steps that led to the cell floor. Shove him they did, and he leapt on the momentum, jumping over the steps and landing on his feet a good meter away from the door. He spun to give a smug grin at the bucketheads, but the door had already shut.

The bunk was barely padded, but he’d slept on rougher surfaces during his training. Knowing he was being watched over the CCTV—he knew where the invisible cameras where placed; he’d been taught the patterns—he considered unzipping his trousers, thinking about Loire, and jizzing all over the wall. Some offenders at the academy did that when they were confined to the guardhouse; legend had it that the body fluids were never cleaned. But his temples started throbbing as soon as he lay down, in an after-effect of the stun shock; he had to close his eyes. Soon he drifted into unconsciousness. He dreamed of his mother and sweet toska rice, and when the door opened again he sat up awake in a growl of his empty stomach.

It was a stormtrooper sergeant this time. The buckethead trod over to him and handed him a code cylinder. “You are free to go, Lieutenant Veers.”

“What time is it?” First thing to ask when you’ve been jailed, always. Zev took the cylinder and slipped it back into the pocket of his creased uniform.

“The 13:00 IST HoloNet News aired now, sir.” A jocular inflection seeped through the buckethead’s vocoder.

Zev ignored it, shakily stood up and limped out of the cell on numb feet and toes that screamed bloody murder in his boots. All Imperial detention blocks looked alike, and he easily found his way out of it; he had to retrace his steps and ask for directions just twice.

As he made his way out of the spaceport, he couldn’t shake off the sensation of being watched. Which had been true and literal while he was stuck inside that cell. His psyche must be on strike now. He couldn’t muster even the all-consuming worry that had brought him here in the first place. Apathy like a low-level migraine buffered the galaxy around him. His body was ravenous and it was painful to drag himself along.

As soon as he spotted a vending machine beneath a screen flashing a HoloNet News rerun, he tottered there and got himself a bottle of concentrated jogan juice and a pack of biscuits. Thankfully they hadn’t blocked his credit on the code cylinder. The food tasted so delicious it was worth listening even to the propaganda drivel about _the latest success of the Imperial civilising mission_ in some Outer Rim butthole world, and to _the warm welcome given by someone very special to the beloved Hero of Hoth, General Maximilian Veers—_

Zev spat out the jogan juice in his mouth. He stared at the juice stain dripping down the front of the vending machine, not daring to look up at the board for more than one fast glance—and what that saw was a zoomed-in shot of Veers embracing him, a blissful smile of abandon on his ugly face.

Behind his back, Zev felt the prickle of stares. A whole galaxy’s worth of photoreceptive organs.


	14. Chapter 14

Veers slipped off his boots at the entryway, dropped his belt on the sofa, whipped off his gloves and tossed them to the floor of the kitchenette. Before opening the fridge, he rested his forehead on it and pictured bashing his skull against the sleek surface several times.

He still had time. Piett was a fan of long showers. More so if the water supply was unlimited. The stiff muscles in Veers’ neck and shoulders would be thankful for the warmth. Really, he had nothing to lose in accepting to live this... this _tryst_ on the sailor’s terms.

His teeth gnashed together, and the sensation was of having chewed durasteel. He flung the fridge open, snatched two beer cans, then scooped up a third. He slammed the fridge closed in a rattle of bottles, and went to flop onto the sofa.

Even before he’d outlived his fortieth standard year, there were times when he’d wished he was in his mid-twenties again. The Force must have taken it further and tossed him back to the most embarrassing sentimental pitfalls of his teenage years. All this while leaving his body old and tired. He pushed the beers aside, stood up and stretched his arms over his head. He swung his shoulders in circles and, as far as the crick allowed him, rotated and flexed his neck. Despite the popping noises and the flashes of pain, the tightness in his muscles relaxed a bit. Just enough for Veers to sit back down with a minimum of comfort.

He could even look up to the ceiling, where the sunlight hit it and lent the paint patterns a faint golden glow. The shaded parts were more like piss-yellow. Veers suddenly hated this place. Hated it so much he tossed to the wall the first can he downed. The projectile left a nice dent on the paint, ricocheted and clattered to the floor, leaking out leftover drops of beer.

The gesture didn’t calm him, but it made him feel ridiculous; that sufficed. _Steady nerves, soldier_. _Don’t let a Navy bastard, of all sentients, throw you off balance_. Snorting, he grabbed and opened the second can.

This entire fucking situation had been off balance since its wretched start in that bar on the _Executor_. Now that he had solid planetary ground beneath his feet, Veers wished he could slap some sense and sobriety into his post-Hoth self. He had trusted Piett too much, at too intimate a level, too fast. Sure, he had known him for three years; when you lived in close proximity on a starship, that amount of time tended to reveal an awful lot about a person. _Good chap, competent officer, smarter and braver than he seems, tough as nails, has seen poodoo_. Entrusting his cock to Piett had never seemed much of a big deal, after all the times Veers had entrusted him with his life and those of the Thundering Herd.

No, Piett was not the problem, not the one who was souring this shore leave. _That’s you, Maxie_. His mind spoke in Eliana’s voice—her mocking teenage voice.

“Fucking nine hells!” he growled to drown out his thoughts. It still left him with an accelerated heartbeat and a slimy lump in his throat, which he tried to wash away with beer. The swig he took was so long it left him gasping for breath and on the verge of gagging. So much for getting inured to Navy rotgut.

He pressed the half-emptied can close to his racing heart, swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe evenly. In the meantime, his imagination wandered off to recreate the walls and furniture and sunlight angle of his and Eli’s bedroom on Denon.

He could feel again the creased bedsheets and the soft mattress under his naked buttocks. The smell of laundry and sweat. Eliana was crouched between his spread legs, her hands on his thighs, hair cascading onto her chest. She swatted a bang off her forehead. “ _Maxie, what’s wrong?_ ”

“ _Nothing._ ”

“ _Nothing my ass._ ” Eliana rose on her knees and pulled her panties back up over said ass. “ _Is it something I did?_ ” The irritation was as clear as the Coruscant city lights.

“ _No. I’m just... I’m not in the mood now. I’m sorry._ ”

“ _Why?_ ”

“ _Do we really need to talk about it?_ ”

“ _Yes._ ” She pulled away and sat cross-legged, glaring lightsabers at him.

“ _It’s classified. You are neither permitted nor want to know_.”

She blew another loose strand of hair off her face. “ _What could it be? Did they transfer you to the ISB and now you’re torturing Rebel prisoners for a living?_ ”

Veers was too cowardly to recall the rest of their argument, but he remembered the effort to keep his voice flat and his composure still. Sitting through bombardments in a shaky underground bunker, playing sabacc for distraction, had taught him that sort of patience. Interacting with Admiral Ozzel had been a lot more infuriating. Eliana never had to make strategic decisions that sent thousands of Imperial lives to a strategically pointless slaughter. Like all civilians, she wouldn’t understand, and couldn’t be told.

Or could she?

He didn’t remember if his younger self had considered violating the military secrecy oath in the intimacy of the bedroom, just to unload his burden.

“ _Come on, Maxie._ _Do_ _you take me for a spineless wimp?_ ” Taunting was Eliana’s way of begging, he should have kept that in mind. “ _I’ve read up quite a lot about the Clone Wars, you know. Even the Umbara campaign_.” Presumably before the censorship of the ugly Clone Wars stories had tightened—good stars, how worried she must have been when her Lieutenant boyfriend left for his first tour of duty? He’d never thought about it. Yet another instance where he had been a fucking clueless idiot. As always.

Down went another long swallow of beer, until the can was dry and his gorge choking. Veers broke down coughing as soon as the can lid left his lips, and he didn’t fight it, just let potential asphyxiation either pass or kill him. Like everything else, it passed. That sure bode well if he ever pissed Lord Vader off. _Seen this, Firmus? I’m not that much of a lightweight_.

He cleared his sore, malt-tasting throat. Good stars, why was he so fixated on Piett’s opinion of him anyway? Had it been like this when he and Eliana were young?

Yes. Yes, it had. The vice of upset was a familiar pain; old, long-buried, yet it gripped all the ancient tender spots of his heart. Some had grown dull and frayed over the years, but they were as easy to hook as ever. General Iron Max Veers, old and battle-scarred, was again his teenage self, scared tongue-tied of telling Eliana that he liked her and would have died for a smile and a kind word. All he got were snarky comments on his acne, on the thickening patches of hair on his face and body, on his academy-issue speedo, on Judicial Academy cadets in general; her smiles were haughty. Then they turned awkward, and the snark gave way to flush-cheeked silences and mutters that, once deciphered, sounded friendly.

One day she waited for him after the cadets swimming session, cornered him outside the changing rooms and blurted out an invitation to the holomovies. “ _You army people get a ticket discount on Primeday night_ _s_ _, don’t you? And the movie seems cool. You can tell me all the war details they got wrong.”_

For the life of him, Veers couldn’t remember what the holomovie they watched was about. Not one scene or one character. He did remember his hand on Eliana’s lap, the heat under her skirt and his giddy marvel at the well-toned flesh of her thighs. Sometime during the movie, her arm snaked tight around his and he leaned toward her to let her rest her head on his shoulder. Had that been the first time he’d breathed in her scent? He had no idea, but her smell was so vivid and entrenched in him that it backdated itself onto the memory.

He could recall it if he closed his eyes, focused, and inhaled deeply. Which he did. The bittersweet tang of her sweat and her skin, blended with zesty perfume on her hair, rushed at him all over again. For a blissful heartbeat it was like she was here and near him, naked and strong and wet, holding onto him for dear life in a little death. Remembrance was the one place where she was still alive.

A metallic crunch stirred him from the reverie. His fist was clenched around the can, and crumpled it like flimsiplast. Messy, but this place was not an Imperial military installation and he could allow himself to be a mess. He relaxed his fingers, one after one, and let the can clank to the floor.

The living room he was nestled in became their kitchen at home, full of food scents and Eli’s laughter. “ _Let me fetch it for you, stupid_.”

_“That’s cheating! I promised you wouldn’t need to help me—”_

Eliana dumped a garland of sweet toska on the last free square centimetres the table could spare; she took a knife and started chopping. He was standing in front of the stovetop and busy babysitting the rice pot, at an awkward angle to pout at her. _“I said I would cook it all by myself.”_

_“Shut up and keep stirring, Maxie.”_ Her amusement and triumph, or maybe just the sound of her voice, had made him smile into the curls of steam that rose from the pot. Once Eliana had finished dicing the sweet toska, she plopped the fine pieces of vegetable into the pot and turned to receive his kiss.

What did her mouth taste like? Veers recalled the taste of the sweet toska rice, but it made no sense to superimpose it onto that kiss. They had not tried the foodstuff until it was dinner time. He had forgotten. With a groan, he rolled to lie flat onto his belly. The belt he’d left on the couch pressed a sharp corner of the buckle against his stomach; he slipped a hand under himself and flicked it to the floor.

That memory must be about fifteen standard years old. It had been eleven years since she—since the accident— _damn it, General, grow some balls_ , since she’d died.

He rubbed his face and his prickling eyes on the sofa pillow, crossing his arms underneath it. The pressure crushed his nose and made it difficult to breathe.

Eleven years. The war had ensured they passed fast. Zev had grown up several parsecs away; an angry boy, stuffed into a cadet uniform, sulking his way through the academy. Asking the commandant for leniency had been one of the most humiliating experiences in Veers’ life; later on it had been his turn to teach classes, and he sweated every time he checked his HoloNet inbox, not just because of the hot Caridan climate.

Thank the stars, nobody had ever solicited him to go gentle on cadets with relatives in high places. But had he stayed teaching for more than one semester, that would have happened. The Kolene garrison had been a relief, in that one regard. Never as much as the frontlines, though; those brought him to places that were too wild, messy and miserable for sentients to hold social occasions, and attempt to pair Imperial officers up with their unmarried or polygamous scions.

On Corellia, he’d been forced to attend at least one such event every blasted month, as timely and mood-killing as a Human woman’s period. Regrettably, he had to remind his superiors in Coronet City that he existed, and most of them were hardnosed socialites. Sitting at the supper table, it wasn’t infrequent that a nimble foot in a high-heeled shoe would creep its way up to his crotch. Veers’ due regard for the other guests, in his opinion, ought to end above the table; under it, it was like the Coruscant lower levels, where civilisation ceased to matter and intruders were kicked away. Only General Romodi’s teenage daughter had been brazen enough to glare at him after such a rebuff; perhaps it had to do with the heel of her designer shoe snapping off under Veers’ boot.

And this was just the polite courtship. There were parties where his widowerhood attracted pretenders rather than daunting them. “ _A pretty face like yours,_ ” Colonel Corvae had explained to him, “ _plus a sad life story, plus the charm of a true war hero. You are a loth-cat in a hungry rancor’s pit, Maximilian._ ” Three drinks later, Corvae had volunteered to become the rancor. Real rancors were neither giggly nor touchy-feely. A few standard hours later into the night, alone and safely locked into his quarters in Kolene, Veers fired off transfer requests.

In hindsight, he should have accepted Corvae’s invitation to wherever the hell she planned to fuck him. She was a good officer, and after the night cycle of the Hoth battle, Veers had lost all rights to get judgmental about anyone else’s drunken behaviour. By now she had ascended to the rank of major-general; perhaps she could have also become the second Mrs Veers. Unlikely that a Caridan noblewoman would change her name to a Denoni commoner’s, though; Eliana had changed hers because she hated her own surname.

“ _Dawnfire sounds so bloody daft. Like something from a holoflick. And I always hated when you mangled it to ‘Spitfire’, you know._ ”

“ _Hey, I wasn’t the only one!_ ”

“ _I didn’t care when somebody else did it_ _. Only_ _when you did_.” For good measure, she punched his rock-hard bicep.

Veers rolled over to his left side, folding his arms and massaging his upper arm where that mock punch was burned into his skin. He deserved a real punch, and would have taken a thousand hits and a hundred vibroblade cuts if that—if raw pain and sacrifice—could be traded for her.

Instead, she was dead and gone forever. Replaced. Like a KIA stormtrooper. A shinie soon stepped in to fill the void in the ranks. You’d damn like to think that things were better at home, that home weren’t a frontline as well.

Veers mashed his face between the armrest pillow and the back cushion. He wanted Eli here, now, in his arms, pressed against him, not one item of clothing between them. He wanted to nuzzle his way through her hair, whisper to her ear how much he would always love her. But she was gone, and Piett was not her. What a nice bedfellow he’d replaced her with. Served him right for not mindlessly reaping cunt and cock among the airheaded socialites on Corellia.

After all, had the sailor not admitted to having crushed on him for a while before acting on it? What in the nine hells, then, set Piett apart from General Romodi’s daughter? Footwear, anatomy and age aside. What made him better than her? Veers was an simple-minded dirt-pounder, but not so simple as to underestimate a young woman. If it was for a kindred spirit that he was craving, for a fellow military mind, well, Tessala Corvae was the natural choice; she was a fine Army officer, for crying out loud.

Standing as an ugly aside, there had been that detour when Moff Juno and Rear Admiral Jerjerrod had coaxed him into entering an Armed Forces Auxiliary Relief brothel. For several nights afterwards he woke up panting, with a stiffy he refused to humour. The woman in the dream was that Mirialan prostitute, his wife, Colonel Corvae, young Miss Romodi, and several others in one body and one scream. It was so unfair to each of them, even to the unbearable little shits like Miss Romodi.

Women were too sharp a reminder of his late wife, or so went the lie he’d fed himself and everyone else. Nobody bothered to snoop in his personal file and read what the ‘Sexual Orientation’ field said. Least of all did the socialites, and thank the Force for small mercies: that would have meant more advances from more attack vectors. Only a fool opens a second or third or fourth front while he struggles to hold the first.

There had been a male crush or two in his youth, but nothing practical had occurred until Piett. That left the sailor a lot to capitalise on. Veers rolled his eyes. _Would you want me so badly if I were used merchandise, Firmus?_

He could see Piett scoffing. _But you are used merchandise, dear; you were married_. It didn’t matter who the person he replaced Eliana with was; it didn’t matter how different they were in the way they made love. A betrayal it was, a betrayal it stayed.

Fuck, he needed another beer.

He swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and jerked himself upright. An empty can crunched under his heel; the floor was wet and cold through his socks. His head didn’t like the sudden motion, either. He had to shut his eyes and sit until the planet’s rotation decelerated to its ordinary speed.

Veers sighed and grabbed the third can, ignoring the stern inner voice that told him it was a bad idea. He thumbed the lid, but hesitated popping the can open. The beep of an incoming call on his comlink made him put it down on the table for good. He rummaged through the folds inside his pocket to find the comlink; that gave his spite a few precious second to cement itself. “Dirty conscience, eh, Firmus?” he mumbled before holding up the device and pressing the answer button. “If you are who I think you are, don’t bother unless you mean to apologise.”

Silence at the other end of the comm. Had that been too harsh...? No. Fuck it, it had not.

“Sir, I am quite glad to claim I am not Lieutenant Veers,” said a feminine Core-accented voice that by all means was not Piett’s.

“Kijé, what in blazes...!” He ran his free hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “Never mind, I mistook you for someone else.”

“It’s quite alright, sir. I know you probably weren’t expecting this call. So, well—”

“Are you okay?”

“Sir?”

“The footage, is it alright?”

“Oh, yes, sir! I have already edited it and sent it to the Ministry. If they like it enough,” her voice shook with enthusiasm, “they might broadcast it on the main HoloNet News midday edition, Imperial Standard Time of course.”

Almost a whisper, “That’s great.”

Silence.

“So,” Kijé had the guts to break the newly formed ice first, “if you would like to watch it, 13:00 IST is the time you should tune in to the HoloNet.” A garbled sigh-like noise. “I may not be able to. I am meeting a person around that hour.”

“Someone work-related?”

A nervous laughter. “No—well, I don’t think so? It sounded like a date, actually…? I guess.”

A date. That stung. Tantor was off with his family, Covell had disappeared into a resort in the country, and during last night’s dinner even Major Laestri had hinted at some plan for vacation with friendly company. “That is a splendid idea, sunshine.” Meanwhile, Veers would be alone and with nothing to do. He clenched the comlink so hard in his fist that the plastoid chassis creaked. “Enjoy yourself and your girlfriend.”

“Well, actually…” Silence.

“Is there something else, sunshine?”

“Oh, uh, nothing, sir, nothing important, never mind.” Louder nervous laughter.

Veers felt like his own parents when he was dating Eliana. They used to smile a lot, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Kijé cleared her throat and recovered her prim and proper Miss Propaganda tone. “Thank you, sir. Truly. I wish you a good evening.”

He let her shut the comm first. Very slowly, he put the comlink down on the table, next to the beer can. Then he whirled about, shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth against the sharp pain in his shoulders, and rained punches on the cushion. The sofa springs groaned and the skin on his knuckles scraped, but nothing broke, and the edge of his foul mood was blunted. The only thing it didn’t help was the muscle pain.

Brooding and drinking wasn’t helping anything. He picked up the belt from off the floor, consigned the empty cans to the garbage disposal and the unopened one back to the fridge, and wiped up the pools of beer as best as he could with a kitchen towel. Then he shuffled over to the bedroom, folded his uniform away in a drawer, and dolled his tired old body up in civilian clothes.

Veers didn’t like the effect in the wall mirror. The sweater was a sandy colour he wasn’t used to seeing on himself, and made him look fat. His thighs and calves were stuffed in the freshly ironed trousers like sausage in its gut. Without the cap on, his greying hair lay mercilessly exposed—and fuck if he was going to ring Piett’s door now to retrieve his cap. Maybe later tonight, if the sailor didn’t surrender first.

Damn, he missed being on the _Executor_. Up in the vac, Piett was in his element, never fussy, never in the mood for arguments.

His frown in the mirror darkened. More wrinkles at the side of his eyes and his mouth. _Stay on target, soldier_. This place was not the _Executor_ , and it was not home. So be it. At least it wasn’t a jungle war zone. When he unzipped his trousers to take a quick piss, however, he spared a jeering thought for Piett and the heavy-calibre blaster he was missing out on.

He brought his comlink along, but left it on stand-by so that a pre-recorded message would greet whoever called. It was unlikely anyone would, except for Piett if he deigned to apologise.

The light outside fell at a funny angle through a steel-grey and white billowing patchwork of clouds. To Veers’ Denoni eyes they might pass for rain clouds—those that brought the bucketing yet brief summer showers—but fuck if he had any clue about this planet’s climate quirks. The TIE fighters flying in patrols of three were the only familiar sight; they were built to be each exactly like the other, whereas there was not one same sky in the galaxy. Veers didn’t know if he found that soothing or unnerving.

The wind that swept the streets was colder than anything the Kuati weather had hurled at him so far, but compared to Hoth it was nothing. The sweater would suffice. Less than ten paces away from the gate, he wheeled about, went shivering back into the apartment complex, and hesitated on the landing in front of Piett’s door. Ultimately he went into his flat, picked up a jacket and left without another look at the neighbouring door.

The jacket had a high collar that, once zipped up, reached to his nose. He hid within it as soon as he spotted a recruitment holoposter at a hovertram stop. It wasn’t one of those sporting his face—his _younger_ face, that of Major or Colonel Veers. They hadn’t asked him to pose for a new photoshoot in a while, thank the stars.

The poster, however, was Hoth-themed. Snowtroopers trampling over Rebel soldiers, and doing so in an unrealistic shoulder-to-shoulder formation. If they had done that on the battlefield, the Rebel machine guns (operational till the bloody end) would have easily mowed them down. The slogan underneath excitedly invited Kuati youth to comm or drop by the nearest Army recruitment centre. ~~~~

Under the tram shelter there were two girls around Zev’s age, one with a dark Human skin tone, the other a Pantoran pale blue. They stood hugging and blocked out the sight of the holoposter on the billboard. They tottered away from each other as Veers passed by. He tugged his jacket collar further up and made sure to avert his gaze. Just common courtesy to people in a frowned-upon relationship. How long until the Human girl’s ideas on species hierarchy cooled her heart off? How long until a low-ranking ISB goon issued the Pantoran girl a ready-made warning message?

Veers slowed his gait once the tram shelter was far behind him. Poor girls; to be so careless, they must be either very silly or sick of hiding. He understood how even one daring gesture, one embrace in a public place, could become more and more tempting, like the prospect of a fight—any fight—to bored soldiers.

Not that Piett had ever been one for backing away from daring gestures. Bearing witnesses to that, there were the cockpit of Blizzard 1 and several nooks and crannies on the _Executor_ , which the admiral knew in as much detail as he did, by now, the position and texture of every scar on Veers’ body.

Thinking about Piett—his hands, lips, tongue, eyes, raking his skin up and down—made Veers walk faster again. It was hot under his jacket, disproportionately to the physical effort. Passers-by moved out of his way on the sidewalk. His cheeks itched with flush, but the murder in his glare must have been offsetting that inconvenience. Good.

Strolling... well, more like _marching_ down the street, he spotted more posters. Projected on billboards, at public transport stops, in shop windows amongst overpriced civilian shoes, takeaway lunch deals, droid spare parts. The one with the snowtroopers seemed to be a local favourite. One clothing store had placed mannequins in ruffled shirts, black tights and combat boots at the sides of the poster, posed in a military salute. It was so fucking surreal he had to stop and stare. Through the polished pane he could hear upbeat music playing inside the store, and the hubbub of customers and shop assistants.

_This is it. This is why we fight._ The thought struck him deep, but roused no hostility; just marvel, and a nagging nostalgic sadness. These people didn’t know it was the Hero of Hoth gazing at their shop window; for all that concerned them, General Veers could have perished on the icy field of honour. He might as well be a ghost.

Such a waste, Hoth. The damn best chance in years of going out in a blaze of glory. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Was it Admiral Pradeux who said a commander always died at their best battle, especially if they survived it? A relic of Military History class, a fragment his teenage mind had stored because it had struck him as ludicrous. Yet, that long-gone bastard was right. Iron Max Veers had one purpose left in his life, one thing he was good at: serving the Empire. Nothing else. He couldn’t have done a better job at it than at Hoth. It bordered on insulting that he had survived the battle. What for, anyway? There were hordes of young officers who could fill out paperwork in his place. Some might be tough enough as not to soil themselves whenever Lord Vader was around, and smart and brave enough to carry out his orders.

Veers’ gaze shifted its focus from the poster to his own reflection on the glass. The eyes were the clearest visible detail, so they seemed uncannily big. There was something obscene about that stare.

When he’d been standing with his boots in the snow, he didn’t have any sense that the galaxy would latch onto this battle. Indeed, his initial reaction to its outcome had been anger. The Rebel High Command had escaped. The Rebellion had escaped—by the skin of its teeth, with plenty of wounds to lick, but it had escaped. The ground attack had claimed far higher Imperial casualties than it should have. Upon being congratulated by Admiral Piett’s hologram for the successful operation, he had nearly smashed his helmet against the comm station. Victory had been slow to sink in. The Army mess hall on the _Executor_ had helped; the officers were singing when he’d walked in, and damn but he had been glad to hear the hoarse voices of Tantor, Covell and the others who were alive and safe.

The one who had helped more than anyone else, however, was Piett.

“Sorry,” a tinny voice crept behind him. Veers whipped about, but it was just a nanny droid pushing a pram with a sleeping, drooling infant inside. The child’s chubby brown fingers clutched a stormtrooper plush.

Sighing inside his collar, Veers buried his hands into his jacket pockets and resumed the march, this time at the shuffling, slow pace of a straggler. The wind blew stronger; clouds blocked out the sun and the orbital ring. He wondered if he should go back to his quarters. But that would mean making peace with Piett. He knew he would try as soon as he stood in front of that locked door again.

The street ran parallel to a canal, lined with a wrought iron rail covered in some sort of climbing plant, whose blooming red flowers were reminiscent, in shape and size, of lipstick-painted mouths. A carpet of the plant’s fruits, round and so small they could have fitted inside a blaster barrel, crunched under Veers’ shoes. Mercifully, the windy day must have blown the couples away from the public benches, sending them to cafés or bedrooms. Veers hoped younglings these days found better locations for their awkward petting than a Flangth-2-Go restroom.

He squinted into the wind and the sunlight—albeit filtered through the clouds, it was more intense than any artificial light on the _Executor_ —and let his gaze wander over the grey canal water. The environmental sim could replicate planetside light and temperature, but the wet dank-smelling air that rose from the tiny wave crests and the crunching fruits beneath his feet were irreproducible. The kind of details sim programmers could never replicate, and vac-heads soon forgot.

Piett had spent quite a lot more time in the vac than him. They had wasted their leave together so far struggling with their own stupid issues, so they hadn’t exchanged any touristic impressions yet. Had Piett gotten used to being dirtside here? It was his first time on Kuat aside from the shipyards. From what little Veers knew of Axxila, it and Kuat were worlds apart not just in the astrophysical sense; was Piett _liking_ it here at all? Possibly so. Unlike his homeworld this place was safe, clean, well-ordered, like any Imperial stronghold worth its salt ought to be. But if the Army had taught Veers anything, aside from the variety of accents Basic could be spoken in and how creatively it could be used for hurling insults at the Rebel scum, it was that Outer Rim people could react funny to the luminous centre of the galaxy.

Well, he did trust Piett to be too smart to start a brawl in a nightclub and, once kicked out, shoot at passing speeders.

Maybe he wouldn’t get so bad, sure, but... Veers sighed into the collar. His eyes watered; it was just the wind and the crisp air, of course, nothing at all to do with remorse.

_He risked all for you. He is risking all. Everything he’s built so far, everything he’s become so far. All for you_. It was so fucking selfish to fuss over whether or not Piett openly told him that he loved him. Why in the nine hells should one need words if the deeds were already there, in plain sight? So many deeds, night cycle after night cycle. The skin and muscle memory warmed Veers up under his clothes. Someone who wanted him, _him_ , Max, not General Veers. It had been like coming back to life after a long spell of carbon-freezing. A suspended animation that had lasted eleven standard years, comprising the battles and the close brushes with death. With his one uncertain chance to ever be with Eliana again.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to the Force knew whom—maybe he did know whom, but she had been dead for an awful long time.

A few paces away, a white stone bridge jutted over the canal. Veers took that turn and strolled across the bridge, trying to remember if any of the few officers he’d known who had ended up suicidal had jumped off a high place. This bridge, for that matter, wasn’t high; ten meters above the water, at a glance. And Veers was good at swimming.

The middle segment of the bridge splayed out to form a small circular plaza, with one bench at each side; the left bench was occupied by an elderly bearded Human, stylus in hand, bent over a drawing board. In the centre stood an obelisk projecting the hologram of a _Venator_ -class Star Destroyer. Veers halted to read the inscription on the obelisk; just as he expected, it was a monument to the fallen naval personnel in the Clone Wars. Making silence in his mind, he stood in front of the obelisk for what his brain knew was exactly one standard minute.

His duty to the dead done, he eyed the old civilian on the bench. The look was mutual. The stylus danced on the drawing board.

“Good day,” Veers said. Polite, but warning. Possibly more warning than he’d intended to; civilians were kind of oversensitive.

This one, however, smiled through his thick white beard and nodded. “Good day to you, sir. Navy?”

“Army.” Veers wondered if the artist was just pretending not to know him; he had captured his likeness well in the scribbly sketch on the drawing board screen, so it was unlikely he’d not recognise a war hero who was all over the HoloNet. If that was the case, Veers appreciated the discretion even more. “Nice drawing, by the way.”

The artist bowed his head. “Thank you. You have an interesting face, son. You should have considered modelling. You could still do it if you ever were short on cash, you know. Soldiers aren’t rich.”

Veers huffed. From _sir_ to _son_ in less than ten seconds. Fucking civilians. “Can I keep it?”

The artist’s face fell, but he said, “Ohh, yes, sure.” He put away the stylus, flipped up a corner of the ultra-thin flimsi sheet on the drawing board, pulled the sheet off, rolled it up and made to hand it to Veers. Then he smiled like a used speeders seller. “Wouldn’t you prefer a commission, though?”

“Pardon?”

“An artwork I can make for you, for money. I do give discounts to armed forces folks.”

Veers was already shaking his head to decline, then he thought better. A smile slowly spread over his own ‘interesting face’. “Do you know what Admiral Firmus Piett of Death Squadron looks like?”

The artist opened a little HoloNet window on the upper right corner of the drawing board. After squinting at a few reference images, he said, “Now I do.”

Grinning with no restraint left, Veers quickly told him what to draw. The entire thing was finished in a matter of minutes. Veers paid, let him keep the sketch of himself gazing at the obelisk, and left with the rolled-up flimsiplast under his arm.

He strode back to his quarters as the sky grew dark and the air colder. He rang at Piett’s door first. Once. Twice. He pressed an ear against the door, feeling bloody stupid at first, and queasy with worry when no sound seeped through from inside the flat.

“Well, Firmus, hope you’re having fun,” he mumbled. It wouldn’t surprise him if the admiral’s idea of fun were a rock-hard sleep. Hard to blame him, for that matter. He spared one last look at the locked door before crossing his flat’s. “Goodnight, sailor.”

Once inside, he turned on the HoloNet terminal. The clock synchroniser informed him there was some time left until 13:00 IST, during which he distracted himself by ordering dinner. Three home-delivery Iktotch toasts and two scoops of Corellian fried ice cream came to cost almost as much as the commissioned drawing. And Kuat still claimed to be a pro-Imperial world!

A musical opening theme to the tune of the Imperial March and the voice of an overeager newscaster introduced _the only news you need—the HoloNet News_.

Veers went to the fridge and recovered the last beer can. Throughout the first news reports, he toyed with it, rolling and bouncing it between his palms until his hands were cold and wet and the can was warm.

Rebel-inspired atrocity on Mardona III... Factories on Nakadia resume work at full steam after minor incident, local governor denies all rumours of Rebel sabotage... Grand Vizier Amedda tours mining facilities and factories on Lothal... Inauguration of the first government-sponsored primary school on Akiva, latest success of the Imperial civilising mission...

“ _And now we would like all Imperial citizens to partake in the warm welcome given by someone very special to the beloved Hero of Hoth, General Maximilian Veers—_ ”

A blaster shot right through his heart would have carried less of a punch. Veers dropped the beer can and winced hard, pushing the sofa a few centimetres backwards. His heartbeat filled his ears and blocked out the rest of the newscaster’s nonsense. The images, accompanied by a chipper trumpets fanfare, changed to two Human men in olive drab uniforms.

_That’s not him. Not me_.

The camera showed him and Zev in a waist-up shot. Zev was carrying a book. They saluted each other. He patted Zev’s shoulder. Still that shitty cheerful music.

He covered his eyes when his video double pulled Zev into his arms. An instant later, he forced himself to keep watching. “You coward,” he growled. _You imposed this on Zev. The least you can do is share the humiliation_.

Kijé or whoever had edited the footage had taken care to smooth the acne out of Zev’s skin; the grim expression was unaltered. Veers bit his right hand to prevent it from shielding his eyes again.

The next close-up was on the general, so damn near to weeping in joy, wedging his chin between Zev’s shoulder and neck.

The newscaster reappeared. “Thank you again to all veterans of Hoth who are following us now. The galaxy will not forget your contribution to peace. And now, we move on to the sunny archipelagos of Spira, where the second regatta of this year’s Open saw the Tinnel IV home team suffer a most unexpected crushing setback—”

The intercom beeped. Veers ran to open the door, stumbling on the beer can that had rolled on the floor and nearly crushed it underfoot. Fuck if he cared. It must be Piett. Couldn’t be anyone else. _Thank you, you vac-headed bastard_.

A squeaky, youthful voice spoke over the microphone, “Mr Veers? Delivery service for you.”


	15. Chapter 15

Piett sat without breathing. He stared at Chiraneau as the latter drank up his port and smacked his lips, regarding the empty glass like a freshly kissed lover.

“Captain, have you really proposed what you have just proposed?”

Chiraneau put the glass down and returned the stare. There wasn’t a gram of fear in him; you didn’t need Lord Vader’s Force to read that into the veteran coffin jockey. “I won’t take my words back, sir, stupid as they may be, and I accept their consequences. So, so—shall I take this as a polite refusal?”

Cheeky bastard. Piett wiped his mouth on the napkin and pulled his gloves on. “I am paying for the taxi.”

“Thank you, sir. But to where?”

Damn it, the man had some gall. And some guts. Piett rose from his seat and smoothed the creases on his uniform. Well, he had guts, too, he’d show him. And he’d show Veers. Even if the general would never know. “To this... friend of yours’.”

Chiraneau grinned and leapt to his feet. He preceded Piett to the counter where they paid each for his share of the dinner, then outside to the sidewalk; Piett caught up at a slower pace, finding Chiraneau already comming for a hovertaxi. He spoke loudly into the comlink and every word carried a vapour cloud under the yellow streetlamp light.

Piett shuddered in the cold night air. In the old times, he had been the loud one. The one elbowing a fussier, more civilised officer aside. “ _Spare me yer moralist poodoo, Lieutenant. I have Imperial creds an’ I mean ta squander ‘em._ ”

Fussy, civilised Lieutenant Artois. Oh, the look of hatred she had shot him, to which he’d retorted with a smug smile and an even smugger strut towards the knocking shop.

Less than one standard week later, a street thug shot Artois dead.

“ _I wasn’t expecting such carelessness from you, Piett,_ ” Moff Luc said over the comm, “ _of all people in the Axxila garrison_.” A sigh. “ _Vice-Admiral Artois personally notified his displeasure to me. This will impact your transfer request, I’m afraid_.”

“Is it far from here?” he asked Chiraneau. His voice was calm. Everything was in the past. Nowadays he outranked even Vice-Admiral Artois. “The knocking shop, I mean.”

“The preferred term on this planet is ‘house of tolerance’.”

“Are they serious?”

Chiraneau shrugged. “Coreworlders, sir. Anyway, _far_ depends on how fast we make the taxi driver drive.”

The _we_ , the complicity, gave Piett a shiver that wasn’t due to the cold. “Please remember a hovertaxi is not a TIE fighter, Captain.”

“Eh, how unfortunate. Here it is!” Chiraneau stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and waved at the approaching taxi speeder; when it halted, he opened the back seat door for the admiral. Piett climbed on board, grateful at least for the warm interior. Chiraneau got in the front seat next to the driver and gave out the street name. If the driver was aware of the brothel’s presence there, she kept any remark to herself.

The drive was quiet and fast; Piett watched the taximeter all the time, and it said less than ten standard minutes. In Imperial Standard Time, it was long past 13:00 hours. Lunch break on the _Executor_ was already over.

As per his promise, Piett paid the fare. In the meantime, Chiraneau exited and again opened the speeder door open for the admiral. What a gentleman. Would he balk if the admiral demanded a blow job in a dark alley, in return for that post in Death Squadron? Possibly no. It would be cheaper than the brothel, if anything.

After a brief walk, Chiraneau pointed to a building. “We’re here!”

“ _This_ is it?”

“Classy, isn’t it?” Chiraneau beamed like he owned the three-storey building in front of them,  whose austere square lines and marble façade reminded Piett of the Muun architecture he’d seen in tactical recordings of the battle of Muunilinst. Chiraneau went on, “The Banking Clan used this place as a guesthouse for their low-level staff on Kuat, long before the Wars.”

“Huh. There is more honesty in whores than in bankers, I suppose.”

Chiraneau laughed so loudly that a muscular male sentient stepped out from the revolving doors, cyclamen-skinned arms crossed with thick biceps on display. For a two-meters tall bloke in combat boots, cargo pants and skin-tight tee, he moved with the grace of a dancer in a Hutt’s entourage. “May I help you, gentlebeings?” he rumbled in a Core-accented, velvety voice that staved off some of the nighttime chill.

It wasn’t just the pleasant voice, Piett realised. The guy must be a Zeltron. Projecting pheromones, just a little bit; enough to put people at ease and either persuade no-goods to leave peacefully, or entice the shy and uncertain.

“Sure you can!” Chiraneau made it clear they belonged to neither category. “You could tell Madam Bellanger that her friend Mikos Chiraneau is here for a visit.”

“Please make yourself comfortable in the lobby.” The Zeltron spun on his heels and waved for them to follow. His cargo pants were form-fitting on his arse in a way real work-functional cargo pants would never be. Piett shook his head out of staring, and met the Zeltron’s shining dark eyes. Knowing. Accepting. Inviting.

Piett’s throat went dry, his knees weak, and his cheeks far too hot for this weather.

“Come on, let’s go!” Chiraneau hooked an arm under his and hauled him into the revolving door. Piett caught a glimpse of scanners going over his body, flashing green together with his code cylinders.

The vestibule he and Chiraneau stepped into made him want to walk out at once. Burgundy red carpets and upholstery. Holoprojectors shaped like porcelain vases, displaying holos of rare galactic flowers. Low-volume strings music in the background. No prostitutes. Just a protocol droid behind a counter. Every piece of furniture and every square centimetre of wallpaper looked like it might be worth his whole monthly pay from when he was a lieutenant; for all that now he was an admiral, the thought made him uneasy.

The most unsettling thing, however, was the smell. Citrus and sweet detergent. Piett blinked in disbelief. Brothels on Axxila, at least those he frequented, did make some effort at pleasing the Human olfactory sense, but whatever perfume was used would mingle with an overwhelming scent of cunt and sweat—and it was delightful. Young Lieutenant Piett would inhale that smell and wanted to smile and kiss and embrace, even after the umpteenth denied transfer request.

The Zeltron stepped in last, running a hand across Piett’s shoulder blades and trailing pheromones in his wake. It was a call to battle stations in Piett’s pants, and the blaster cannon ached as it rose.

“Please,” the Zeltron purred, “have a seat.” Such a disappointment he didn’t say _please, fuck me here and now_.

Piett bit the inside of his cheek. He slumped onto a squeaky leather-padded stool, with Chiraneau to his right.

“Liking it here already, eh, Admiral?” Chiraneau giggled uncomfortably close to his ear.

A tractor beam kept Piett’s eyes glued to the Zeltron’s afterburners, which the latter generously displayed as he reclined over the counter to talk to the receptionist droid. The pose was unnecessary for this purpose, although the arse was nice. Very nice. Almost as nice as Veers’...

 _Idiot. Buggerin’ Huttfeckin’ eejit. Stop it. Stop it. Look away. Look away. Now_.

“He’s up for rent as well, you know?” Chiraneau said.

“...Pardon?”

“You there, pinkskin!”

The Zeltron tilted his head towards them, but kept his ass well in sight.

“Are you for rent?”

“If the admiral wants me,” he flicked his tongue at Piett as he spoke, “I am.”

The cannon’s elevation rose further. Not squirming on the seat took effort. Reining in fear in Lord Vader’s presence was worse, though.

Chiraneau huffed. “Ah, come on, haven’t you seen his groin? Of course he wants you!”

“Captain, now you are overstepping your boundaries.” Piett hauled himself to his feet and lumbered towards the door. “I won’t let this indecency go on a minute more...”

“Please, stay,” piped up the Zeltron.

The supplication ran through him like a stun blast and froze him where he stood, with a hand reaching for the door and a foot half-lifted. It had to have been an effect of the pheromones and the Zeltron’s telepathic abilities.

And yet...

_Max, please, stay._

Would it have killed him to say that when he had the chance? Imagine saying it. Imagine what would have happened in the shower. Then in bed.

Piett’s breath hitched. He turned back towards the Zeltron, shaking a little. The Zeltron smiled.

“I take it,” the droid said, its voice gratingly even, “you are going to need a replacement here at the welcome point. It seems Brina is already available; I will call her as soon as she finishes the decontamination procedure.”

The Zeltron’s face fell. “Oh. The customer didn’t like her?”

“Vice-Admiral Sloane filed a formal declaration stating it had nothing to do with the quality of our services, but rather with her not being—I quote—in the best mood.”

The sense of relief reverberated through the telepathic link. “Well, it happens to the best Humans.” The Zeltron traversed the lounge to Piett, swinging his hips. In the corner of his eye, Piett noticed Chiraneau stirring on his seat as the Zeltron passed him, and peering to stare at the alien man, who extended a hand to pinch his chin.

“Personnel from the rank of Vice-Admiral upwards get a free half standard hour on their first visit. You are also entitled to a business-class room, whatever the services you purchase.” When had the Zeltron stepped so close? Warm waves radiated from his strong body along with a fruity smell of cologne. “May I interest you in the trial period, for a start?”

“Well, how kind of you.” His hands, of their own initiative, clamped themselves to the Zeltron’s hips, drawn like magnets to metal. “Why not.”

The prostitute dipped his head and kissed him. His tongue lunged in, swirling all over Piett’s teeth and palate and retreating before any resistance or counterattack could be mounted. Open-mouthed, with a soft groan, Piett closed in the half step left between him and the Zeltron, brushing his chest against the other man’s and stroking his back, feeling the warmth of his body through the shirt. But the Zeltron was tall, and even standing on his toes Piett couldn’t reach that beautiful grinning mouth.

That would be the moment when Veers called him a shrimp.

Piett grabbed the Zeltron’s hair on the back of his head and dragged him down. Rather than a kiss, it was a mashing of lips and teeth. Fuck, he liked it. His knees were shaking, knocking against the Zeltron’s legs; his cock was starting to ache and throb. He squirmed against the pain, bit harder, pushed his tongue in deeper.

Someone whistled and clapped. More than one person. “Oh, Mikos,” a feminine voice drawled, “you always pick friends with good taste.”

Chiraneau laughed and responded in non-Basic, which magnified his accent (it must have been in the Couronnian language) and elicited more collective laughter.

Piett didn’t care. He didn’t look at them when he broke the kiss, panting. He just wanted those naked arms around him, he wanted to nuzzle against that chiselled chest.

The Zeltron was reading his desire when he wound an arm around Piett’s waist, and steered him towards the counter, amidst a cheering crowd in which Piett recognised only Chiraneau’s voice. He didn’t spare a glance at them. The droid aligned a scanner to Piett’s code cylinders, then offered a touch pad to the Zeltron, who placed his right hand there. Everything blinked a happy green. Piett read the identification barcode on top of the touch pad after the Zeltron had gotten his scan; in smaller font underneath, there was his name. He couldn’t focus to read it. What a shame—he used to be so good at remembering whores’ names.

“This way, Admiral.”

They went up a staircase; after a few steps, Piett was already whimpering curses under his breath at the chafe of his clothes on his swollen crotch.

“May... may I call you with another sentient’s name?” he asked the Zeltron.

“Your boyfriend’s?”

Piett tripped over a step, but the Zeltron held him and scooped him up in his arms with an effortless, athletic gesture. So strong, so caring. Just like Veers that night after Hoth.

“You can call me whatever you prefer, Admiral.” And a Core accent. Deep voice. Younger than Veers’, but fine. “Is Admiral okay for you? Would you prefer your given name? Something else entirely?”

“A... admiral is fine.” Piett’s mouth was so close to the Zeltron’s neck he might as well take advantage of it. He got so lost in planting slobbery open-mouthed kisses that he didn’t notice they had entered the bedroom until he felt a soft mattress under him. The Zeltron shifted position to bend over him, nudging his legs apart.

The ceiling was all Piett could see of the room, bathed in a glow of low-power orange lamps. Through the fevered blanket of arousal, nostalgia slithered its way—he missed the _Executor_ ’s cooler lights, the muted blues. The Zeltron’s smooth hands cupped his face. For an instant, Piett missed the familiar sensation of calluses and small scars. Then the kiss got him; lips first, a gentle nipping, tongue in. Piett arched to press himself against the other man’s body, chest to chest and hips to hips and erection to erection. He groped and tugged all over the large, rock-hard back until synthcotton gave way to bare skin. He ripped off his gloves to better feel it up. He searched for the usual places where he knew Veers’ scars were, and not finding any was such a stupid, illogical disappointment he sank his nails there.

The Zeltron broke the kiss to moan. The noise ended in a heavy-lidded smile. His big hands slid downwards to Piett’s heaving chest, where they unbuttoned and opened his uniform; further down they unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. A mercy and a liberation.

“Better, yes,” the Zeltron whispered to his ear and licked the lobe. Piett was too overwhelmed to tell whether it was a question or a statement, but breathed _yes_ in response anyway.

The Zeltron’s shoulder muscles quivered under his sweaty palms. Those hands again, creeping under his shirt, rolling it up to his midriff, then under the tunic, slipping it off. The shirt was next. Piett lay back down half-naked, panting and sweating and trembling like a Coreworlder bukee about to lose his innocence—Artois’ words, _lose innocence_.

“W-watch me now,” he whimpered. “ _Schutta_.”

The Zeltron chuckled. “Who’s the slut?” He flicked his tongue all along Piett’s collarbone. “Your boyfriend?” And down the ridge of his sternum, sucking hard and adding teeth. In slow circles around the nipples. Over every mole and scar and every fold and wrinkle of aging, softening skin. Piett clenched the bedcovers with one fist, the Zeltron’s hair with the other. The texture was curly and thick, whereas Veers had thin fluffy hair; damn pity.

Sensing his negative thought, the Zeltron went down on him with renewed vigour. Each kiss hurt like a bite, filled the room with a filthy wet suction noise, and it was so, so good.

_Max... Max..._

Piett gasped for breath, his lips already forming the letters of Veers’ name. It weighed like a pebble stuck in his throat. He wanted so badly to spit it out.

_Max—_

No. No. He bit onto the fresh silky bedsheet. Dangerous secret. Must not be spoken. Never know who might be listening. The ISB had wiretapped every A.F.A.R. house in the civilised parts of the galaxy.

A low hum mixed in with lapping kissing noises as the Zeltron progressed down Piett’s linea alba, through the scarce hair that had survived the skin rash Axxila’s air pollution had given him in his younger days. The muscles below were painfully tense, the building pressure and heat at the same time wonderful and aggravating. Piett pushed the Zeltron’s face against his crotch. “Please. Please. Ma—” He bit the drool-wet bedsheet, groaning in pain and pleasure through his teeth. “Please...”

“You like it.”

“Yes—”

Fingers pulled his trousers down and hooked the waistband of his pants, dragging them away. “You can shout his name, I promise.” They massaged the crook of his thighs. “I won’t get mad.” They slid over to his balls.

Shout his name...

Piett arched his neck and curled his toes, trapped in the heavy boots, in response to the touch and its movements. Up his shaft and thumbing the bell-end; down, down, circling around his arsehole; up again, gently, gently scratching with the fingertips. The pleasure rippled up his body as if he was already being penetrated.

“M...” He gritted his teeth onto the bedsheet. _...Max, I’m all yours—_ He shuddered as the other hand kneaded his bollocks and a thumb rubbed the slit of his cock.

Wouldn’t it be so blasted good to just give him his all? Lie down and be enjoyed. Be his. Stripped to the core, taken, sullied, surrendered, vulnerable. Wouldn’t Veers deserve it? Deserve to have the proud brave admiral completely at his mercy, to fuck him to pieces and love him back together over and over? Wouldn’t it be so beautiful?

The warm wetness of a mouth and a writhing tongue enveloped the top of his erection. Piett jolted upright to sit, but no name escaped his lips; just a sob.

A face looked back at him from his primed ventral artillery, with half-shut but attentive eyes and full cheeks. It was pink, youthful, and _wrong_.

Rage tore through his pheromone-induced stupor. It was like waking up from a wet dream to an ugly reality, where the boner was an annoyance rather than a pleasure. He was aware of where he was, of the sweat and goose bumps on his skin, of his trousers bunching up at his knees, of his cold aching toes inside the boots.

The Zeltron released his cock with a slurp that had no arousing effect. “Is it okay? What did I do that you don’t like?”

Piett breathed in with a hiss and his jaw set so tight his ears hurt. _Never speak when you’re this mad_. He’d even _thanked_ Moff Luc for informing him that Lieutenant Artois’ death had floundered his chances to sod off of Axxila. Fuck, why was he angry now? It was a whore, and not Veers. It was better like this. Whores were professionals who didn’t ask for your feelings; just for money and fair treatment. They were not complicated. Unlike that stupid sad laser-brained dirt-pounder.

The Zeltron hunched his well-defined shoulders. “I can sense you’re angry. I’m so sorry, Admiral. I want you to be happy.” For such a strapping, muscular lad, he did the loth-kitten act well. Because in all likelihood, it was not an act. If a whore didn’t make a customer happy, what happened to them was not pretty—as the Hutts put it. It sounded better in their language.

Piett exhaled slowly, one chunk of anger at a time. This was a civilised world, but he’d never trust the Imperial brothel company to go light on an underperforming worker; especially not on a planet where Piett hadn’t spotted even one non-Human in the city centre.

“Then you can start out by taking my boots off.” He planted one foot on the Zeltron’s left pectoral, gently mashing a nipple under the heel.

The Zeltron kissed his naked thigh; it pressed a different, steadier warmth on Piett’s skin. Not quite lust. Gratitude, possibly. One of those crimson hands slid under Piett’s knee and held him still while the other pulled the boot off. The hand under his knee pushed the bundle of pants and trousers down; Piett gave in to a mind-clouding shiver as soon as the Zeltron’s fingers brushed the back of his knee.

He conjured up the image of Veers offering to help him into his boots; sweet stars, the same imploring stare. _How could you have pushed that man away?_ Piett gathered breath and saliva. “Good lad. Now the other.”

After the second boot, off went his socks, trousers and pants. The Zeltron took hold of his right leg and kissed his knee, while stroking up and down his calf; it was exhilaratingly, hair-raisingly, spine-chillingly close to his sensitive popliteal fossa, and Piett dragged his leg free. “Undress and lie down. Arse up.”

“Yes, Admiral.” Still sitting on the balls of his feet, the Zeltron whipped his shirt off. Hairless, scarless, crimson skin... well, at least he had the right muscle mass. An accurate approximation of Veers in his prime, when he belonged to his wife—that lucky dead hag. A despondent heaviness settled in Piett’s gut, despite the warm euphoria the pheromones were feeding his body.

The Zeltron rose to his feet and ran a hand over his six-pack, down to unzip his trousers. “Am I satisfying?”

Piett nodded, watching deft crimson fingers unholster a pocket heavy blaster from out of the briefs. “Undress.” His voice was hoarse. “Just... just be quick.”

The Zeltron grinned and saluted. Both with his hand and with a twitch of his cock. A lucid part of Piett’s brain snorted at the disrespectful gesture, but the nude rest of him trembled and sighed and considered letting the lad put that gorgeous soldier to good use and fuck him as senseless as Veers had failed to do.

The Zeltron carried on with his orders: he whirled about, showing off his arse first clothed, then starkers as he bent over and disentangled himself from clothes and shoes, swinging his hips, shaking those toned buns without a thread of fat.

“Where’s the lube?” Piett moved away on the bed to let the Zeltron lie flat on his belly. Fuck, he was beautiful. Lithe, hot, wanting. Piett trailed his knuckles up that inviting back, as smooth as polished durasteel, all the way to muss the prostitute’s hair and stroke his face.

“Drawer to the left.” In-between the words, the Zeltron tongued Piett’s fingers. “You’ll find condoms and toys as well.”

Years ago, he would have gleefully inspected the latter available range; indeed, the dildos, plugs, cock cages, sleeves and rings had a sleek appearance and so many speed settings one might suspect the Kuati naval engineers had had a say in their design. Old and in a hurry, Piett groped for the lube—in a round box that boasted its premium quality in gold-printed font—and a condom.

He tried as best as he could not to tear the protection while putting it on; finally, a generous amount of lube was spread over his straining, jacketed cock. A palmful remained in his cupped hand, and when he turned the prostitute was already in position, a pillow under his lap and a smirk on his face; he rested his chin on the crook of his arms and ran a finger between his parted ruby lips.

The fog of pheromones drowned Piett’s rational mind again. About blasted time. With one head spinning and the other throbbing into the condom, he lurched over the mattress to kneel between the Zeltron’s thighs, pushing them far apart until the Zeltron moaned in pain. Piett feared that might send him over the edge, but it was just a passing blindness and near-lightspeed accelerated heartbeat. He splattered the lube between the Zeltron’s arsecheeks. It was hot and taut and pulsing down there. One, then two and three of his fingers prodded their way into the Zeltron’s hole.

 _Max..._ “Do you like it?” Threat seeped into his voice and twisted his face into a smile. A fleeting wave of sickness and shame, as if he were watching another man doing his dirty deed. He wiggled his lube-slick fingers in the tight space. Dirty felt bloody good.

When treated to the same manhandling, Veers had let out a long sob and gripped the pillow. But he hadn't told Piett to stop.

“Yes. Yes,” the prostitute hiccupped. “I love it. So good...”

“ _Firmus, this is so good, please please please—Firmus, don’t stop_.”

_“Can’t fit too many proton torpedoes into one launcher, General. You’re supposed to know gunnery.” A hooking motion over the prostate, and a hard thumb rub to the rim at the same time._

_“Ahh—! Please don’t... don’t fuck me... just don’t stop—this is fine, I love it—don’t stop, please._ ”

That time, he’d allowed Veers to come from the fingering alone. One couldn’t resist the way Iron Max begged once he was properly molten.

“How ‘bout this?” Piett yanked his fingers back and grabbed the Zeltron’s arse, spreading it open to the limit; the whore grunted, and the whiplash through the telepathic link was almost one of anger. Almost. The Zeltron didn’t fight him. Fuck, if the bastard had tried…

Growling in disappointment at the denied chance to be harsher, Piett thrust himself in. Like all entrances without care and preparation, it was not pleasant. Not for his cock, boring into a frustratingly stiff hole, and not for the other party. The Zeltron shuddered and let out a hissing noise; a vision of teeth sinking in sickly pale Human skin flashed across Piett’s mind.

It was a more potent kick than what the pheromones had fed his libido so far. His bell-end inside the condom felt drenched with pre-cum.

Piett reached for the Zeltron’s short hair and yanked his head backwards. A pair of glassy midnight-blue eye gazed at him, and he found himself smiling. “If this dirtball weren’t bleedin’ Imperial civilisation, ye’d slap me an’ scream for the bouncer, y’know?”

“I love it,” breathed the Zeltron. “This is fine, I love it. Don’t stop, please.”

_Max…_

Piett shoved his face onto the pillow and started hammering with all his strength. Which did not amount to much, as the dirt-pounder was fond of reminding him, but concentrating it into a man’s arsehole had a way of turning even a small force into a superlaser-ordnance might. Barely aware of his own cock’s twitches, he focused on hitting and hitting and hitting, back and forth, fast and merciless. “Don’t stop, eh?” His loins were soon burning in the effort. Flesh walls were loosening around his cock. “How… d’ye… like this? Eh?”

The Zeltron’s answer was a symphony of squeals; if any honest citizen heard such cries coming from an alley at night, they’d rush to warn the nearest stormtrooper patrol. But his movements soon found a synchronism with Piett’s thrusts. Buttocks against pelvic bones, sweat popping on crimson skin, Piett’s space-pale hands curled in a claw-like hold, their blueish veins bulging and the forearms hair standing.

_Max…_

“Yer mine.” He was near the climax, all muscles in his lower body charged up. “Blast that hag to the ninth hell!” Tears welled up in his eyes and a stinging pain lanced into his innards, all the way to his heart. Bloody hell if he gave a Huttfucking damn if he had a stroke and died now.

_Max—_

He rutted against the other man. In his momentary loss of vision, into the overwhelming scent and taste of sweaty skin and its heat against his face, that man damn well was Veers. He could die now. His heart had cracked. His body sank flat onto the warm, shivering surface of another body. Skin against his lips, but his mouth was too tired to kiss. Tang of sweat, too sweet to be Human, filling his nostrils at every breath.

The Zeltron stirred under him. Piett breathed in, counted to three, and rolled off and out of the prostitute. When the latter tried to meet his gaze, he looked away. “Is that door over there—” His voice cracked, he was so out of breathe.

“The ‘fresher, yes.”

Piett hauled himself over the edge of the bed and to his feet.

“Admiral?” Bedsheets rustled. “You still have fifteen standard minutes.” The Zeltron’s voice had caught its breath already, deepening into the business tone again, whereas Piett still felt like he’d run the whole length of the _Executor_ ’s hull. “And I have not come yet. I could make you very happy—”

“Please collect my clothes off the floor.”

The room temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. Piett’s mind felt clearer, like waking up from a light sleep. Severed telepathic link. The Zeltron must be upset, and with good reason; he was a prostitute and had just been treated like a servant. _Shame on you, Firmus_.

As fast as his wobbly knees, swimming head and aching crotch allowed, Piett hurried to the ‘fresher. He hurled the dirty condom into a garbage chute and ducked inside the gleaming polished shower box, where by starship-born instinct he set the shower to sonic.

His reflection on the box wall stared at him with a scrunched up face, trembling lips, and eyes blinking back tears. He slammed a fist against it.

Blooming Huttfucking hells. He’d done nothing wrong. Why the fuck was he feeling sick? Deep breaths, in and out. Must have been the wine. Breathe in, breathe out. A sad booze. He was in a bad mood and the wine had made it worse. He had done nothing wrong. It was Veers’ fault.

“You idiot. You ruined everything.” A spiteful hiss, drowned into the gentle buzz of the ultrasonic vibrations. Veers was the idiot, not him. Of course he was. With his irremediable grief and his burdensome, over-emotional demands. With his sticky, gooey, trapping love. Love was a trap. It turned you into an unshielded ship during a pitched battle. Just think of Captain Fraine.

Piett shook his head to send the memory away, then breathed deep, closed his eyes, and allowed it to play unhindered: Captain Fraine in her smart uniform, working the nights in her office with holos of Chandrilan landscapes; the Core-accented Huttese expletives she mangled, in response to the first anonymous death holocall she received; Lieutenant Piett’s puzzlement when she summoned her family to Axxila, because she couldn’t bear to live far from them; “But takin’ yer younglings here...?” “Well, my children need to learn not all the galaxy is like Chandrila, don’t they?”; the day she got home from work, not long after the anti-pirate fleet had dismantled a Kage spice cartel in Verrua the Hutt’s payroll, and found her husband’s bloodied remains, tied with wire to a chair. The younglings were gone. Years later, Piett had heard, the girl was found in a round-up at a slave market on Mon Gazza. She had no idea where her brother was, as she told the psych medidroid. Captain Fraine had long since left the Navy and hobbled back to Chandrila, stuffed with MedCorps-issue antidepressants.

That was what happened if you loved someone. It became a weak spot. A big, bright holotarget hovering over your daft head. Someone would take aim and fire, and you’d be food for the stray strills. Or end up seduced and abandoned like Attica. Despite the warmth inside the shower, Piett shuddered and hugged himself.

Fraine’s rank and station had been passed on to her second in command. Lieutenant Piett was not bitter. He worked in a different district, after all. That newly promoted captain was junior to Lieutenant Piett in age and seniority, but Piett was no old bantha either. Surely Moff Luc had his valid reasons to approve that promotion and not spare a thought to Lieutenant Piett’s career. Despite how hard Lieutenant Piett had worked, how he’d put his life on the line every day and night, how many criminals he’d blasted to stardust or delivered in stun cuffs to the district prison.

His forehead thumped on the glass wall, now damp with moist. At last, being married to the Imperial Navy had brought him to the _Executor_. Being married to a good man and wanting him around her had destroyed Fraine’s life, her husband’s and her children’s. Admiral Piett was no such sentimental fool. He would not lower his deflector shield his battle and saunter around with that big bright target over his head. Not for such a certified sentimental fool as Veers. Better ask Lord Vader to hack him to pieces at lightsaber-point if he did.

Veers, damn him... Who had even asked him to fall in love? When had Piett given him permission to get so close and lower his shields?

His mind went rifling through the years of long-suffering, silent-suffering Captain Piett of the SSD _Executor_ , a poor sod caught between an incompetent, bullying admiral and a competent, homicidal Sith Lord. Whatever in the universe a Sith Lord exactly was—aside from a scary, powerful man on both political and supernatural grounds to have aboard your ship. At least Vader was terrifying but treated Captain Piett, and everyone else, with the pragmatic respect of a fighter for his weapons of choice; he bled the Death Squadron’s crew dry and used men and machines until they broke, but never out of caprice or stupidity. Those were Ozzel’s specialties.

Piett clenched and unclenched his fists. Under the gentle whirr of the sonic, tension was building up in his shoulders and locking his jaw. He wanted to punch the glass. Deep breathes, clench and unclench, clench and unclench.

Once, the topic of alien kinks had been brought up at the mess hall table, and Ozzel had informed the entire table that _our modest captain_ was a beloved customer at the A.F.A.R. houses on Axxila. Especially those whose workforce consisted of non-Humans. The Force knew where he’d learned that; maybe gossiping with Moff Luc at a party. He kept his eyes down on the half-eaten nerf fricassee in his plate, his mouth shut, the hand that held the knife still. Ozzel laughed, then Veers’ voice overlapped the admiral’s, “Sir, could you please change the topic?” It wasn’t loud, but it had the ring of command. And induced silence over the table it commanded. “I hope you understand, sir; I used to have a wife and the locker room talk makes me uncomfortable.” Nobody, not even Ozzel, dared mock him. The din of nervous forks on plates began filling the silence again. Piett glanced up at Veers; the general winked as he bent to blow on a forkful of food, without any other change in his stony expression.

For the rest of the dinner and back in his bunk, Piett imagined that wink leading to an intimate conversation, a few drinks, a supply closet and oral sex. Veers slept peaceful and unaware in his own quarters, as usual; the bedsheets in Piett’s bunk needed a change long before the first watch of day cycle. It was neither the first nor the last occurrence. Veers was persistent in his friendliness: a cup of caf together, a few minutes’ small talk after a briefing, the doodles on the margins of a datapad showing a stick-figure Veers punching a stick-figure Ozzel. And so on. Not counting the times the general and the captain had effectively cooperated during combat situations; the times Veers walked back aboard the Executor with a slight limp, a dirt-stained uniform, boots tracking mud, and, “The Thundering Herd and I owe you our lives, Captain Piett,” as he saluted.

Crushing like a blaster-brained cadet on a man who’d done nothing more than been friendly to him... stars, he would have drowned it in Ithorian rum, had it not been too risky to develop an alcohol addiction while captain of a Super Star Destroyer.

One last deep breath. The air in the shower box was as warm as a sultry summer day on Axxila, but smelled much better. Piett cuffed the sonic activation button, and gasped in pain at the impact. The sonic went back to sleep with a placid, condescending whirr. _Fuck you, too, shower_. The timer on the device said he’d been under the sonic for five minutes. In his quarters, three minutes were enough to steam off the smell of sex after he’d spent the night with Veers.

He shuffled out of the box and went back to the bed. The Zeltron was lying on it, now clad in a turquoise nightgown with fluffy trimming; Piett allowed himself to notice the nice crimson legs and the hand suggestively placed between the nightgown’s belt knot and the crotch lump. He turned away. His clothes were folded on the vacant side of the bed.

“Thank you,” said Piett. He sat down with his shoulders to the Zeltron and started dressing.

“Admiral?”

“Yes?”

“Did... did I do anything wrong?”

Piett glanced at the dark upper corners of the room. He couldn’t spot the cameras and microphones, but he was certain they were there. He got to his feet to slip his boxers and trousers on. Once he was protected in his sensitive areas, he kneeled on the mattress and stated loud clear for the microphones’ benefit, “You were very good. Thank you for the tumble.”

The Zeltron gave him a shiny-eyed, pheromone-less sad look. “Are you sure you don’t want to carry on?”

“I wish, lad, but admirals are busy people.”

The Zeltron laughed. The cheer might be genuine. “Even admirals on leave?”

“Especially admirals on leave.” Piett gestured at the Zeltron to come over and he pecked him on the cheek. “These are for you.” He slipped a few credit chips onto the mattress.

“You don’t have to—”

“Will it get you in trouble?” Piett asked quietly.

A pause, a glance at the dark upper corner of the room. “No, sir.”

Of course the surveillance goons demanded a percentage on tips. Piett bit his tongue, but it was too late to take it back; if the microphones had caught his words, those ISB Huttfuckers would blame the lad when they didn’t find the money.

“Thank you, Admiral. You’re very kind.” The Zeltron took the money and put it inside the drawer with the sex toys.

Very kind, indeed. If he was so kind, why couldn’t he just let Veers rant about his family problems, and cuddle him afterwards? Why must he be jealous of a woman he’d never known, who had been dead for years? Dead to the galaxy, maybe, but not dead in her husband’s heart, even as he gave it to another man. The implication, of course, was that Piett could never match up to that old love. No matter if he tried. No point trying. Why bother with that pain?

After Moff Luc had promoted Captain Fraine’s second-in-command, after Vice-Admiral Artois had communicated his displeasure, Lieutenant Piett had buried his face in his arms over the comm console and wondered: why still bother? He would never leave Axxila. Ever.

“I need a drink,” Piett thought aloud. Before the Zeltron could say anything, he got on his feet and scurried out of the room.

The corridor was empty except for the cameras, wherever they were, and the ISB eyes behind them. The only noise was the same boring low-volume music from before, seeping from downstairs. Not a single sound from the other rooms; the doors, all locked, must be sound-proof. No sign of Chiraneau. It boggled the mind that he liked this place; they must be used to very boring brothels on Couronne, but then again they weren’t Rimworlders... As if there were any pride to be taken in that. Piett had never been proud of being Axxilan. Never would be. _I am an officer of the Galactic Empire_. That was the only belonging he needed. He straightened his uniform and flicked non-existent dust off his rank bar, gentler than a caress on a lover’s face, and went down the stairs.

The vestibule’s population consisted of the receptionist droid and a Mirialan woman in miniskirt and crop top. She was pulling her black and red-dyed hair into a bun, and didn’t seem to notice Piett. “It isn’t the first time I see him on the HoloNet News,” she was murmuring in a faintly inflected Basic. “Vice-Admiral Sloane had no long-lost love to forget between my legs. But he did.”

Forget a long-lost love... If only Veers bothered to actually _forget_ her—whatever his wife’s name was.

Piett avoided looking at the woman and the droid, didn’t reply to their polite salutations and invitations to come again soon, and in a moment was out the revolving door. Breathing the night in peeled his nostrils and grated the inside of his nose, which he pinched to hold in a sneezing fit.

To the ninth hell with long-lost loves and with cold planets. Kuat City had clean, pretty streets, rustling trees and shining streetlamps, but the wind cut through clothes and shaky flesh like a vibroblade. Stomping down the deserted sidewalk to get far from the brothel first, then to warm himself up in the wait after he’d commed for a taxi, Piett stared up at the cloudy dark sky, tinged in the faint yellow of city lights.

Up there somewhere, the Lady Ex was waiting for him like a war spouse for her soldier husband.


	16. Chapter 16

Blasting Rebels to red paste from the cockpit of an AT-AT aside, this must have been the thing that had gotten Maximilian Veers to Army general: you ( _yes, you, even an insecure little idiot like you, Annice Kijé_ ) spoke to him and were inspired to act. Even if he wasn’t actually giving you an order.

Within ten minutes after the comlink call, Kijé had chosen her dress and shoes for the evening, and researched the pub where Captain Sarkli had told her to meet him at and how to get there. The pictures on the Green Rancor pub’s HoloNet site showed cosy wood-decked interiors with candles and plant garlands on the tables. The candles seemed real, aglow on smiling Human faces and their glistening, colourful drinks.

Kijé tapped on the screen to zoom on a candle flame. She would like seeing real fire again after… how long had it been? Since the last bonfire on the beach, back home at Kaadara, during the summer festival. The rest of the pub screamed extroversion and social life, neither of which she liked quite as much.

The realisation of how little she knew Captain Sarkli whacked her across the back of her head. She winced at her seat and breathed deep and blinked the dread away. As soon as the computer screen and the pub pics came into focus again, she tapped the HoloNet tab closed.

The clocks were ticking. Both Kuat City Time and Imperial Standard Time.

Maybe she could comm Captain Visdei, or Sergeant Laval, or someone else in the Thundering Herd… Dammit, neither was on this planet at the moment. Her mothers perhaps? “Yeah, right,” she mumbled. For two standard weeks she’d been procrastinating on the long message she had sworn to write them; no way in Chaos she was going to comm them in person until the blasted thing was written and sent.

There was one man who must know something about Captain Sarkli: his uncle, Admiral Piett. Kijé was even less likely to contact him than she was to comm her mothers on Naboo. It sure was hard to believe the quiet, polite, Core-accented admiral and Mr Roguish Charm from Infiltrations were related. Then again, it was downright painful to know Lieutenant Veers, that insufferable twat, and General Veers, a good person all around, were son and father. Seriously, what would have been more unlikely than that? Queen Amidala and some Gungan hillbilly being Leia Organa’s biological parents? At least that thought made Kijé laugh, then mentally beg for forgiveness to the late queen’s soul; the Gungan wasn’t all that offensive, but a Rebel terrorist as blood family relation? Gross.

Terrorist… Infiltrations… Something clicked in Kijé’s mind. “Bethan, get me the database—” Oh, right. This crappy console was not Bethan. Huffing, Kijé manually logged in to the COMPNOR database; her access clearance wasn’t high enough to access the personal records of Infiltrations personnel, but to her surprise, a name-based search turned out Captain Haidar Sarkli’s file as a generic Navy officer.

Or not too surprising. What had happened at the spaceport, what he had done to stop the deserters, had blown Sarkli’s cover; the Rebels knew who he was, and he wouldn’t be able to infiltrate one of their cells again. Like the fiasco with Senator Gall Trayvis.

Kijé tapped on the screen to open the file. The man who stared back at her from the pic on the screen was a younger, unsmiling, out-of-uniform version of Sarkli. She frowned and zoomed in on the few clothing details visible in the bust picture: a red and white chequered shirt collar. She should remind him to update the picture and put one of himself in his uniform. This one reflected a lack of professionalism.

The service record listed him as _Captain, Imperial Navy_ first and foremost. She clicked on the section to have the oldest service records appear at the top of the list.

_Year 10 IE: Admitted to Bryndar Academy, probationary cadet, Youth Correction Programme._

From what Kijé vaguely remembered, the YCP was a recruitment service operating in prisons to offer juvenile delinquents a chance to volunteer for the Imperial armed forces instead of doing time. It had run for a while and was shut down because Grand Moff Tarkin, it was rumoured, thought it was gifting a blaster to every Rebel-minded young hooligan in the Outer Rim.

Four years later, 20 standard years of age, the record continued, Sarkli had graduated with good enough marks to apply for training in Naval Intelligence and finish his studies at… wow, the academy on Arkanis. Kijé wondered what academy Admiral Piett was an alumnus of; oh the irony if Captain Sarkli had graduated from a more prestigious institution than his uncle! Out of curiosity, she opened a new tab to check the admiral’s service record, but closed it a moment later. _Focus, Annice_.

Well, there wasn’t much to focus on. The dozen missions Sarkli had taken part in were blacked out. You could only see the bullet list, and the bolded red writing over the blacked out words: _NIA authorised personnel only_. Kijé counted the points in the list; thirteen missions. Infiltration could be a long-term process, so it was remarkable he’d managed to get so many jobs under his belt—and live to tell the tale.

She shook her head. It was unlikely he would tell any tale about them, and asking him would be tantamount to divulgence of Imperial secrets. Maybe he had also been brought up with primitive Rimworlder prejudices about gender roles, and believed gruesome war stories weren’t a suitable conversation topic for a woman. That would be so disappointing. Sweet Shiraya, she didn’t want to be disappointed in a friendly person once again.

_No no no, don’t start thinking about Chenda._

“Okay, mystery man,” Kijé said aloud over the mounting growl of her thoughts, “you got me interested. What else do we know about you,” she scrolled past the blacked out section, “that I am permitted to know?”

On to the biographical data: born in Rikuba City, Axxila, year 6 Before Imperial Era. Kijé whistled; Sarkli was older than he seemed. It must be the accent and the easy smile.

She read the line again. Born, blablabla, to Caleb Sarkli and Attica Piett. The admiral’s sister, then. What sort of person must she be? Kijé pictured her a lot like the admiral, petite and quiet. But such details as hairdo and clothing were much harder to picture when you took away the Imperial Navy uniform.

Boring biometrics followed—Human type, weight, height, blood group, known diseases and health defects— _mild past use of glitterstim_ , according to this last one. Kijé imagined what her mothers would say if they came to know she was dating a former drug addict... “We are not dating!” she cried out to the room. She counted a few deep breaths and tried to resume reading, but just laying her eyes on the computer screen made her heart beat faster, so she logged off and shut down the terminal.

Shiraya be thanked, this time there was a book to keep her company, and to keep her brain busy. Kijé went to reopen her case, and paused for a few seconds with the dizzying suspicion of having forgotten the book at the library; this despite remembering it there inside the case, when she’d removed her filming kit from it. At last she gathered the courage to open the case, and there the book was.

Kijé huffed in relief. “Don’t ever scare me like this again, Your Majesty,” she whispered, running her fingers on the smooth dust jacket; the Amidala book was as new as never used. Never handled by anyone but the librarian droid. That was good in a sense, because the librarians knew how to properly handle books; nevertheless, a book nobody read was a sad thing to picture.

She made a quick raid to the vending machine in the common area landing, after peeking over the doorway and making sure nobody was there, and came back to her room with a cup of fizzy Moogan tea and a caf-filled chocolate bar. Everything was so much cheaper on the _Executor_ , even snacks, dammit. There was a cafeteria with hot drinks and cakes downstairs in the main building of the barracks complex, where she’d overheard someone say they gave discounts to officers. But it would be full of strangers and noise and interactions; Kijé shuddered, sat back on the bed, gently opened the book so that the spine wouldn’t crack, and only put it down to rest her eyes and have a sip and a bite.

Every once in a while, she glanced at her chrono.

One hour before the time she’d set for leaving the barracks, she put the book down for good, a foam AT-AT shaped bookmark about halfway through it. Showering, doing her make-up and changing into her evening clothes took forty luxurious standard minutes. As soon as she was past the barracks gate, five minutes late on her schedule because of the blasted queue at the gatehouse, she broke into a run.

When she staggered to a halt at her hovertram stop, she was out of breath, sweating all over her carefully applied make-up, and with a lancing pain to her left ankle after the heel of her shoes had caught into a crack in the sidewalk and nearly sent her tumbling flat on her ugly face.

The timetable display was out of service. Kijé gaped at it while the back of her mind shrieked a flurry of Imperial Army swear words.

Her eyes fell from the display to the ad billboard underneath it. A recruitment holoposter featuring an AT-AT and AT-ST charge, and an old stock picture of General Veers staring into the horizon. Kijé remembered it, it was in Bethan’s library of media resources. Veers had told her the picture was taken when he was a colonel, but the metadata said it was from when he was just a captain. Correcting him had always seemed indelicate to Kijé. Sure, once you got used to the real Veers, the one in the propaganda material did seem distinctly younger—but perfectly recognisable. It was the jawline. And the nose, and the eyes.

Kijé at stared the holoposter, long enough that her breathing and heart rate slowed down to normal. Something was off with the general in the poster. Not as perfectly recognisable as she recalled. Had the picture been processed? No, it didn’t appear so. The issue was hers; she had gotten used to the eyes of the flesh-and-blood version having a spark of kindness and good humour.

The ring and hiss of a hovertram approaching yanked her back to the city street and the race against the clock. Thank Shiraya the hovertram was the one going in her intended direction. The stop was closer than the HoloNet city map had claimed, in fact. When she got off the tram and walked up to the pub, its wooden—she reached to touch it; _synth_ -wooden—heavy front door was still locked.

Kijé looked around in the cooling, darkening air. There were no benches along the sidewalk, but she could fit her scrawny ass on the edge of a flower pot; however, as soon as she sat, a warning beep made her flinch back to her feet. A holosign sprang from a projector hidden among the flower stems, and a pre-recorded voice read the text over: _We remind you it is forbidden to sit on, crush underfoot, touch, or steal the flowers. Please keep in mind any damage will be reported to the Kuat City Constabulary and be subject to fines. Glory to the Emperor!_

She sighed in irritation, wishing there weren’t a recorder somewhere in the projector, too, that would catch her words if she voiced her ‘oh, bugger off’ thoughts.

The moment she turned back towards the pub door, she spotted him. Captain Sarkli, sashaying like he owned Kuat City and grinning as he saw her. Hatless and shorn-headed Captain Sarkli in ugly civilian clothes; a black tracksuit jacket with matching patched up black trousers, and sneakers with a sole so tall they could pass for combat boots—well, not in the Empire, but in some under-armed and ill-equipped Rebel commando, why not. Indeed, Captain Sarkli in his ugly civilian clothes did have something of a stereotypical Rebel commando. Or of a stereotypical street thug.

“Hiya!” he said, approaching Kijé. That big grin still lit his face and warmed the Kuati atmosphere around him of a few degrees.

Kijé bowed her head a little. “Good evening, Captain.”

“Forgot my name already, eh?”

Was that a joke? He was smiling. But Kijé was struck dumb.

“It’s Haidar, anyway. I told ye we better jus’ stick to first names, aye? If that’s okay.” His smile faded, and he shrugged his shoulders—lankier in the tracksuit jacket than they’d seemed in his uniform. “I know it ain’t polite at all on some worlds. Never heard Naboo’s one of ‘em.” He paused. Now he resembled a kicked tooka. “Or is it?”

“No no no, I’m sorry, my bad. Sorry. I just—when you spend a lot of time around officers, you know, you lose this sense of when you should address people by their first name and when by their rank. You know.”

He melted the awkwardness into a laugh. “Naw, I don’t, an’ that is a perk of a long haul in Infiltrations! Rebel scum don’t mind rank much. Most of ‘em at least. Anyway, so, yer an early bird too, eh?”

“Uh, yes. Quite. Haha. Well, I thought the journey time from my quarters would be longer.”

“Ah. Yer stayin’ in barracks?”

“Yes. You too?”

Sarkli shook his head. His smile turned mischievous. “Ain’t not much of a barracks type. They look a wee too much like jail for comfort.”

“Oh.”

“You read my file, right?”

Kijé blinked.

“So you read ‘twas the Youth Correction Programme what made a greyback of me.”

“Yes. How... how do you know that I...?”

“We’re the thought police. It’s what we do.” He cast a glance over his shoulder. “Oi, the pub’s open!”

With a verve worthy of General Veers on Hoth, he spearheaded the victorious charge towards the pub door and held the door open for Kijé.

“Thank you,” she said, hoping Axxilan culture didn’t interpret it as a sign of sexual consent. Which one even _was_ that Outer Rim culture? It was an answer to that Anthropology test she nearly failed at uni.

The pub was devoid of other patrons, and smelling more of floor cleaner than of ale and food. A Human server dashed from behind the counter to meet them, escort them to a table for two, and ask them if they were Imperial personnel. “If you’re interested,” he informed them as he scanned their fingerprints, “we have a special food and drink promo for you guys tonight. Bakos with grilled Kashyyyk shrimps, a pint of the Zhellday Favourite, and all-you-can-drink juma juice shots. All for two hundred creds.”

Sarkli’s eyes had grown big at the mention of the pint. “Sounds all right for me. What ‘bout ye, Annice?”

“May I have a jogan fruit juice instead of the ale?”

“Seriously?” The server cocked an eyebrow at Sarkli. “Dump her, man.”

Before unlocking her jaw and gathering her guts to protest, Kijé cast a look at Sarkli, at his reaction.

His smile had not changed, but his voice became clipped and frosty, “Get her the jogan juice— _man_.”

The server’s mouth hung open for a moment. Something about that aghast look reminded Kijé of Lieutenant Commander Ardan, that time she’d gotten high on TIE pilots stims and gone to confront him in his quarters.

Eyes down, the server hurried off. Sarkli and Kijé took their seats. There were no candles and no flowers on the tables.

She put on her best camera smile. “Thanks. But next time, would you please let me respond to sexist remarks on my own?”

“Sure thing. Didnae want to... y’know, be disrespectful. Did I say the word right?”

“The word...? Oh. Yes, you did.”

“Be disrespectful to ye, I mean, or imply yer a wimp who can’t defend yourself. Jus’ flew on scary field agent autopilot, I reckon.” The smile flickered off his face, and his eyes grew distant, blinking down to the red and white striped tablecloth.

Kijé stiffened on the chair, struggling to think of something to break the silence.

Then Sarkli saved the day again. “So, how’s tricks on the Lady Ex? You can air yer mouth here, trust me. I checked. No bugs in this waterin’ hole.”

For reasons Kijé didn’t wish to make clear with herself, that failed to be reassuring. “I quite like working on the _Executor_. It’s a demanding job, but I am honoured to hold it.”

“Aye. I read what happened to the first PR bloke on the Ex. Heh! Poor sod should’ve known better ‘n getting on Lord Vader’s nerves. By the way, is Lord Vader scary like scuttlebutt says?”

“I would never call Lord Vader scary! That would show lack of respect, and imply anti-Imperial thoughts.”

Sarkli held up a forefinger. “I didnae ask ye if yer _callin’_ him scary. I know yer not daft an’ keep that poodoo to yerself.”

Kijé bit the inside of her cheek, struggling with a suspicious urge to agree with Sarkli and laugh about the whole thing. As if officers like him—and like _her_ —weren’t trained to treat every single interaction ever like an interrogation!

“I used to think Commander Hux was right scary, y’know.”

“Brendol Hux of the Arkanis Academy?”

“Y’know him?”

Kijé shook her head. “Only in name and renown.”

“I heard Tarkin took him on huntin’ trips to Eriadu every now an’ then. Explains a lot. Ever been to Eriadu? Naw? Good. Never go there.”

“What’s Arkanis like?”

Sarkli’s face fell, and he shrugged his shoulders.

 _Okay, let’s try to fix this broken motivator..._ “Aside from the Academy.”

Sarkli glanced up to the ceiling, deep in thought. “Rains a lot. But it ain’t like Axxila. We have a dry season there,” he puffed up his chest, “we get a peek o’ sunlight for more ‘n two days a week, y’know. An’, well, the rain’s acidic.” He slumped again. “First time I was out doin’ the exercises on the drill grounds under the rain on Arkanis, I was happier ‘n uncle Fir headin’ to the knocking shop on a payday. I loved it there, loved the clean water, even if it sent me sneezin’ and wheezin’ to the medbay that very night.”

While he spoke and she nodded to show interest, Kijé’s brain pulled a few definitions out of the thesaurus: _Uncle Fir = Admiral Piett. Knocking shop = brothel_.

When Sarkli finished the sentence, a remark on the weather would have been the most polite conversation choice; but— _admiral Piett, brothel_. “Do you mean he was...?” She shook her head. “Never mind, sorry, I got lost in thought.”

“He who? Commander Hux? Ahh, ye mean uncle Fir! I know, he doesn’t look much of a whoremonger these days. Didn’t look like much like one even back in the days, to be honest. An’ yet! Ain’t no older whore in Rikuba City who doesn’t say the prayers for him on Boonta Eve.”

“Prayers?”

“Aye! For good luck an’ moulee-rah, plus a storm o’ blaster fire on yer enemies.” Sarkli laughed. “Hutt prayers mixed in wi’ Mando prayers, what else couldya expect?”

“But why would,” Kijé kept her voice low, “the prostitutes say prayers for the admiral?”

“He paid well, ne’er beat ‘em, broke a coupla traffickin’ rings. An’ he was a fine gunner with his ventral cannon, I s’pose.”

“That makes sense, yes.”

A server, different from the ‘dump her’ joke guy, materialised with drinks and a plate of bakos; the hot steam and bready, fishy scent wafted over to Kijé’s face, making her mouth water and stretch into an unguarded smile.

“I love shore leaves,” said Sarkli as he dropped credit chips on the server’s palm.

“Wait, did you pay for both of us?”

“I forgot to mention, ‘twas my payday today.”

Kijé tried to take a bako, but it burned her fingers even using a tissue as glove. So she sipped her jogan juice first. “So—no plans for squandering your pay in knocking shops?”

He laughed at the brazen quip. Kijé breathed a sigh of relief into her glass.

“Naw, naw, not tonight!” He picked up a smoking bako, blew on it a few times, and bit into it like he didn’t so much as feel the temperature. Diced vegetables and deep-fried Kashyyyyk shrimp spilled out from the bako and fell all over the table.

The spectacle was disgusting, but staring was rude, so Kijé looked down at her glass and at the bakos awaiting her.

“The fact is,” Sarkli said, still munching, “we ain’t sex-starved at all in Infiltrations. That’s a problem. You get into a Rebel’s bunk to win their trust, and ta!, yer in love wi’ them.”

“I couldn’t imagine loving a Rebel.” Her mind went back to Lieutenant Commander Ardan. “Unless one didn’t know their friend is a Rebel.” She had meant to say ‘lover’ but ‘friend’ came out instead. Dammit, when was she going to let go of Chenda Soult’s betrayal?

Sarkli eyed her over his half-eaten bako; when his mouth was a bit emptier, he asked, “Yer not havin’ any? You don’t like bakos?”

“Yes, I do. I was just waiting for them to cool off a bit.”

“You have bakos on Naboo, d’you?” His Basic sounded like it was improving by the minute.

“Of course we do, but they’re an extraplanetary import. You mostly find them in restaurant chains, Burger Queen and the like.”

“Hmm!” Sarkli swallowed hard and drank a long sip of ale after the final chunk of bako. “This Rebel I met once—right fine chap from Theed—he always went on ‘bout this other cute chap he dated who worked at Burger Queen—”

“The one on High Street or the one on Jafan Square?”

“Eh, dunno, sorry. Can’t remember or he didn’t tell me. So, this Rebel chap was always droppin’ by at the Burger Queen to give his fair lad a kiss. Lad always managed to make him buy a takeaway caf an’ nerfburger deal. Hah! Then hid the Rebel in a broom closet that one time he came runnin’ in wi’ stormies at his heels.”

Kijé raised her voice, “Did they get away? The Rebel on the run and the man who helped him?”

“The Rebel did. Dunno ‘bout the other chap but judging by the look on the Rebel’s face as he told the story, well... naw. Reckon he was arrested.”

“Thank Shiraya!” In a glow of relieved patriotism, Kijé took a first bite of bako. It wasn’t sizzling hot but still hot, and the shrimp crust was mildly spicy. The veggies were tender and delicate, splattered with sour cream. The bread wrap was toasted crunchy, but it was a delight after months of Star Destroyer galley issue bread, cut and packed into frail wafers, bland and always cold, only good if you soaked them in a bowl of blue milk.

“You like it?”

“Hm-hm!” Kijé made the noise with her mouth full. Did he mean the bako or the fact the Rebel sympathiser had been secured to Imperial justice? Whichever the case, yes, Kijé liked it.

They went through the bakos from the opposite ends of the plate, and their hands met over the last one in the centre. “Ye take it, Annice.”

“Oh no, you take it.”

“We split it in half?”

Kijé laughed, keeping her eyes down on his big hand and the red and black lines of a tattoo peeking out his jacket sleeve. “Okay.”

She watched both his hands carefully tearing the bako in two halves, bending them to keep the vegetables and fried shrimp from spilling out. Nevertheless, Sarkli’s pale fingers ended up smeared with sour cream. Kijé recalled editing out of the Hoth celebration mess hall footage a background din of stormtroopers, one of whom had spilled cream on her fingers and excited her girlfriends into bawdy comments on vaginal fluids.

“There ye go.” Sarkli offered her one half of the bako. She made to pick it up, then went for a clean tissue first.

“Aw, sorry,” he said. “Should’ve thought about it myself.”

“Oh, the tissue?” Kijé put it down, without thinking. “No no, I am sorry. In some cultures, it is inconsiderate to pick the food you’re offered with a tissue or a fork or chopsticks or... well, anything that’s not your bare hand. I should have remembered. I’m sorry.” She took the bako barehanded. Their fingers brushed, so briefly she couldn’t tell their warmth apart from that of the bread.

She met his smiling eyes. “Thank you.” The jingle of the HoloNet News drowned her quiet words. But Sarkli bowed his head in acknowledgement. Then they both turned towards the big holoprojector screen over the bar counter, at the back of the dining room.

“Yer footage’s goin’ to be in this one, aye?”

Kijé nodded and smiled, staring at the rotating Imperial crest in the holo while the speaker announced the broadcasting of _the only news you need—the HoloNet News_. A bit too emphatic, shouty; it didn’t reflect well on the Empire, because a strong regime wouldn’t need to shout things in the first place, but the acting quality of HoloNet newscasters had taken a downhill path as of late.

“Is yer footage comin’ up next?” Sarkli asked after the first news story. Again after the second, then the third. After each question, he took in a full mouthful of ale from his stein. The fourth time, instead of drinking, his face flush, he grunted, “This ain’t fair. Ye worked so hard to get that sleemo to cooperate, an’ now...!” He waved the half empty stein at the holograms of Akivan younglings smiling and waving Imperial flags while a governor in white robe and gold chains spouted off half-hearted platitudes about the spread of schooling in the Outer Rim. He made it sound like schooling were an infectious disease.

“An’ now,” Sarkli finished the sentence, “they put this slaverin’ todger-rot first. Blah!” He rinsed his revulsion in more ale, a longer draught that left less than a quarter of stein.

“You shouldn’t be so hard with the satrap of Akiva. I’m sure he’s an alright fellow who works hard for the good of the Empire.”

“I was on Akiva coupla times. Nobody thought this _saah-trap_ Dirus was an alright fella. Not even me.”

“What did he do? Did he arrest you?” She meant that as a joke, and smiled and used an airy tone to convey the jocularity.

Sarkli didn’t seem to catch it. “The first time I was on Akiva. Some poodoo gaols they’ve got there.”

“ _And now,”_ the newscaster’s smile could have thawed Orto Plutonia, _“we would like all Imperial citizens to partake in the warm welcome given by someone very special to the beloved Hero of Hoth, General Maximilian Veers—”_

Sarkli shifted on his seat and the foot of the chair screeched on the floor. “Oi, that’s you!”

The holoscreen showed the familiar images Kijé had edited earlier that day. They seemed new and foreign in the blue hue of the holo. It would have obscured the acne on Lieutenant Veers’ face without any need to bother with image processing.

When the news clip was over, Sarkli grinned at her and clapped his hands. “Well done! They looked real happy to see each other this time.”

“Well, General Veers _was_ happy to see Lieutenant Veers.” Maybe she should comm the general. Maybe he had watched the news and could use someone to talk to. But he had Major Covell and Major Tantor, and Admiral Piett was his apartment neighbour. Veers had plenty of support available. She would only embarrass him and herself.

“Beats me why he would.” Sarkli shook his stein, drank up the leftover beer, rocked back on the chair and with a hoarse voice called, “Oi, man! Bring in the juma juice shots, won’t ye?”

It was the same server who had been rude to Kijé. He brought in the drinks, took away the empty platter and the empty stein, and didn’t look at either of them when he said, “Enjoy.”

“He stinks of fear,” Sarkli said with a smirk when the server had scampered off to the kitchen. “I’m doin’ the thought police act well, aye?”

“I thought you were punishing him for being a rotten bastard to me.”

Sarkli pinched between forefinger and thumb one of the tumblers at the centre of the table. “Ain’t not the same?”

“Oh, no! Meting out harsh punishment is one thing; being gratuitously abusive is another. General Veers told me something along those lines once.”

“Huh. Smart cookie. What was the harsh punishment he was talkin’ about?”

“Hmm... I think something about Corellia. Some strikers.”

“Ahh. Kolene. Aye.” Sarkli drank up his juma juice, and in the brief time it took his hand to bring the glass to his mouth and his neck to arch backwards and the prominence on his bare pale neck to bob as the liquid passed, Kijé felt the stink of fear from herself, more tactile than olfactory. Sweat-cold, paralysing. Had she just gotten the general in trouble with COMPNOR?

“Please,” she said, “do not misinterpret me. I don’t mean to infer Veers sided with those brigands.”

“Guess naw, else he’d not have gunned their marchin’ column down.”

“Oh. Indeed.”

“Ye didnae know?”

“Know... what, pardon me?”

“’Tis a bit of a long story, an’ if ye ask me, ain’t not the most honourable thing the Empire did. So, this one strike at Kolene got ugly, an’ Veers’ army garrison was controllin’ the crowd but when the Corellian riot police joined forces wi’ the strikers an’ they started capsizin’ speeders, setting trash bins on fire, breakin’ into shops to walk out with armfuls of stolen stuff, an’ some troopers swore they saw someone in the crowd wave a starbird flag—well, Veers held his ground wi’ stun blasts as long as he could but the Corellian police an’ someone else in the crowd started shootin’ to kill. He had the troopers an’ the AT-STs return that in kind. Thirty bodies on the ground, more civvies ‘n troopers—not all gunned down, many were crushed in the stampede. Helluva lot of injured. CorSec spent five years puttin’ their own riot police on trial.”

“I saw the news about the CorSec riot police scandal. I had no idea General Veers was involved.” She eyed the tumbler of juma juice. Even though her stomach had clenched, the potent booze was tempting.

“Ah, but wait! What does COMPNOR care, ye may ask? Well, I read this funny confidential report today—”

 _And you’re mouthing off about it in a public house_. Kijé had to wonder if this guy wasn’t actually the last defector left from the spaceport attack. She picked up the tumbler and took a sip.

“—from a psych medidroid Veers vented to a few months after the riot. Y’know psych medidroids report to the ISB, aye?”

“Y-yes.” The juma juice blazed a fiery trail down Kijé’s throat and dropped squarely at the pit of her stomach; she could feel it pool there, threatening to burn its way further down.

“Well, this report says, Veers started havin’ these nightmares where he gunned down the crowd in Kolene—plenty more harmless civvies ‘n they were in the real deal—an’ his wife was there. Wi’ the rioters. Shot dead on the ground.”

“Oh.”

“Report says, Veers said they got so bad he woke up screamin’ an’ spent the rest of night cycle wailin’ like a wounded lothkitten.”

“That doesn’t sound like General Veers.”

“I’ll forward you the transcript.”

“I didn’t mean... Oh, never mind.” Kijé drank the rest of her juma juice. She was disassociated from herself and the galaxy for a moment, and when she came back to her physical body Sarkli was waving at the server for the next round. “Why are you telling me this, anyway?”

Sarkli raised his tumbler. “To the Empire.”

“Of course.” Kijé lifted hers and made it clink against Sarkli’s. “But you still owe me this answer,” she said as she brought the drink to her mouth and downed a few burning drops. Her eyes filled with tears, and she held back a cough.

“Ain’t it clear it’s a warning?” Sarkli held a cocked-eyebrow look upon her as he emptied his glass in one go. It didn’t even make his voice drop afterwards. “The fact is, Annice, Lieutenant Veers is a bad egg. I thought so since the first moment, an’ evidence ain’t makin’ him look any better. So far so good. But he’s a war hero’s bukee, y’know.”

“What... what evidence?”

Sarkli had the decency to lean over the table and whisper, “The spaceport.”

“ _He_ is the...?”

“He _might_ be. Might very, very well be. So ye see—if I want to shoot the strill cub, I have to take down the strill parent too, else I’m strill fodder. Ever seen a strill? The Mandos brought them over to Axxila when they invaded centuries ago. Rotten dangerous fuckers.”

“The Mandalorians or the strills?”

“Both!” Sarkli laughed. This time he only had to raise an arm and snap his fingers for the juma juice fresh shots to be delivered.

“Captain?” _What are you going to do to the general? Arrest him? Put him on trial? Take him away from the_ Executor _?_ Without Veers, that comforting family-like presence who had made everyone in the Thundering Herd treat her well, the _Executor_ already felt like a prison. Kijé’s heart raced, like when she had missed the tram; the shame and upset was stronger than any actual physical exertion.

“Aye?” Big, frank brown eyes looked into hers. Ready to read the unspoken signs.

She couldn’t let him harm Veers. She had to keep watch on this guy. Keep him close, on a leash. It took a spy to spy on a spy.

“...Ah, so, when did the Mandalorians invade Axxila?”

Sarkli gaped at her. “Naw idea. Centuries ago. Was ne’er taught ancient history, not even at the academy. Ain’t nobody on Bryndar and least of all Arkanis who would’ve wanted anything to do with history of Axxila anyway.”

“Hmm. I suppose it could be the Mandalorian Wars.” _Filthy little coward_ , hissed a voice at the back of her mind. She drank up her glass, and it choked off. “The other day I was reading about the defeats on the Hydian Way forcing the Mandalorians to create new hyperlanes to retreat from Celanon. Axxila isn’t far from Celanon, is it?”

“Second stop down the Spur, aye!”

“Then I suppose it was that era. I’m not a specialist, but I know the Mandalorians were particularly fierce during those campaigns.”

“If they were anythin’ like the ballads we have on Axxila, it ain’t no surprise.”

“Ohh, you have ballads about the Mandalorian Wars?”

“Aye.”

“May I hear one?”

Sarkli laughed. His face was flushed red. Not very pretty. Worry or age lines wrinkled the sides of his mouth and of his nose. It was a funny nose, too, wavy at the centre of the bridge. Definitely broken. Yet, the sound of his laughter made her smile along. “Aw, poodoo,” he said, “they’re nasty. Ye don’t tell nasty stuff on a date!”

“Haidar, please, we have been discussing Lieutenant Veers and betrayal until an instant ago!”

His laughter froze. Kijé held her breath. But it was a passing cold gust. “Damn it, chik, yer right. So, what kind of ballad would ye hear? Pillage an’ plunder? Booze an’ cantina brawls? War an’ glory?”

“War and glory, please. Let’s raise the intellectual level.” _Does he even know what the word ‘intellectual’ means?_ Sweet Shiraya, that was mean. _Maybe he’ll get piqued and ask if you just called him an eopie-fucker_. Kijé shook her head, but the thoughts stayed glued in there. Another sip of juma juice.

“Bollocks, the war ballads are the boring ones.” Sarkli picked up his full tumbler, but his hand shook and half of the drink spilled out on the table. “Poodoo! Ye don’t mix juma juice with ale, bleedin’ Huttfuckin’ hell.”

Kijé rifled through her purse and found a square white thing. “Here, have a tissue.”

He took it in his hand, a big warm rough-skinned palm, and squinted at it. “Ain’t no tissue.”

“...Oh. Never mind.” Her face tingling with embarrassment, she made to take the feminine pad back, but Sarkli moved it away from her reach.

“I just had an idea, chik.” He opened and spread the pad, and dabbed the spilled red juice with it. Then he folded it back into the plastic wrap, and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket. “Say, ye Naboo ever go rich-spottin’?”

“Rich... spotting? No? Sorry, what... what would that be?”

“Ye don’t know about rich-spottin’?” He sure was exaggerating his wide-eyed, thigh-slapping surprise. “We hafta remedy this! Finish yer drink, chik.”

“My name is Annice. Unless you have a Huttese word I can call you in return.” She snatched her tumbler and, for emphasis, as if there was a challenge between her and the man across the table, she gulped it down whole. The galaxy went dark. And spun. Then the light was back, at a funny slanted angle; Sarkli was close, standing above her, an arm behind her back.

He held out a hand. “How many fingers, Annice?” His voice was heavier, adult. She liked it.

Liked it so much she caught herself curling into his hold and smile with lust as she purred, “...Four?”

“Aye. Phew! C’mon, chik, let’s get goin’.”

Sarkli held her up to stand on her feet. His arm locked her waist from behind; Kijé noted with a puzzling disappointment— _oh my, Annice, you’re drunk, you’re drunk_ —that his hand lay far from her arse cheeks.

“My purse...?”

“I’ve got it here. Ow! Poodoo—” he growled as one of Kijé’s heels stabbed one of his sneakers. “Sure you can walk on those things?”

“Sure.”

“Without laming my poor foot?”

They tottered towards the exit. Kijé felt something under her heel again. “Not too sure, actually.”

Someone held the front door open for them. “Thanks,” said Kijé, her voice surprisingly normal and polite. She huddled closer to Sarkli in the cold wind that blew in from outside. She caught a glimpse of an Imperial uniform, a major’s rank bar on a firm breast, a Human face glaring daggers of disapproval. They tottered past. The door swung closed with the vice-admiral behind it.

“Think you can walk barefoot?” asked Sarkli.

“Sure.” She squatted, unbuckled and slipped off her shoes, and let Sarkli lift her up again. His jacket was a smooth synthetic fabric that wasn’t pleasant to touch, but warmed up fast. That was good to lean against in the night air.

“Cold?” Sarkli asked through his teeth.

“Hmm. A bit. You know, my hometown on Naboo is a sea place. It never snows but it gets very cold and windy in the winter. This is nothing compared to the gale winds in Kaadara.”

“But yer shakin’.”

“That is because I’m tipsy. By the way, if you try to take advantage of me I’m going to tell General Veers.”

“Tell him what? That I assaulted ye when we both were plastered? Or that an’ his bukee is in trouble?”

“Both. He’ll snap your lovely neck.”

“Makes sense, aye. But—hold on, chik. Since when I have a lovely neck?” The question vibrated with laughter.

Good, she thought. He liked her. That meant she had some level of influence she could exert to shield Veers—or at least to extract information. And, spying aside, she liked being liked by Sarkli.

“Ever since you’ve had a neck, arguably,” she said. “But I only noticed now.”

“Why, thank you, chik, but don’t try an’ kiss me there now. I had naw time to shave.”

Kijé watched the thin stubble on the upper side of his neck under the golden streetlight, while Sarkli bellowed at a hovertaxi to pull over. Her sober self would have balked at the bellowing. And at her bare feet on the sidewalk. Her drunk self realised she hadn’t picked up her shoes and they were still lying in front of the pub door. Her drunk self also didn’t give a lothrat’s arse about it, because picking them up meant detaching herself from Sarkli’s warm supporting beam of a body.

The hovertaxi did pull over. The heater was on inside the car, and by the time it dropped them at their destination, Kijé was sweating under her shirt. Especially on the left side of her torso, the side that was tight against Sarkli. When the speeder turned and Sarkli’s weight mashed her against the closed door, she decided she wouldn’t dream of telling him to scoot over.

They stumbled off in a cobblestones square with a marble fountain at the centre, projecting water into a pool and a pillar of holographic turquoise light skywards.

The cobblestones were cold under her feet, that was the first thing Kijé noticed; the muffled music came next. Dammit, she thought. _A few drinks and I’m already too drunk to hear things_. “Is that a disco?” She felt her facial muscles contort in revulsion.

“The fanciest dancin’ in Kuat City. Look at the speeders, chik.”

Kijé did look at the speeders as they walked to the side of the square. Sleek lines, shiny coachworks, the warning blink of active anti-theft alarms on the dashboards. Drivers, both droids and Humans (the only non-Human was a Twi’lek, or so they seemed at a passing glance); the non-droids were all in uniform-like garb.

Then she took in the front of the _fancy dancin’_ place. Opaque glass doors, with two fambaa-sized security men at the entrance, in all-black suits and black-lensed scanner glasses, each of whom would have made General Veers seem as scrawny as an underfed Gungan. Other than them, the square was deserted.

“It’s so dead here,” she said. “I don’t like it. I preferred the Green Rancor.”

“It’s dead, aye.” Sarkli’s arm gently steered Kijé through a zigzag line across the parked speeders. “So dead there ain’t even the paparazzi. Ain’t somethin’ what happens every night. The ISB issued a restriction order to keep all non-military media folks away from this place tonight.”

“Haidar.”

“Aye?”

 “What are you trying to do? Can’t we just go to the front door?” She tried to plant her feet firm on the ground, but they slipped on the cobblestones. “We’re not going in, are we?”

“Naw. We’re rich-spottin’, I told ye. Lemme show ye.”

Speeder by speeder, shiny streetlight reflection after shiny streetlight reflection on polished steel, Kijé’s head spun and blacked out. Not so her legs; her body kept walking in the dark, with Sarkli’s protective supportive warmth around her, at her lead.

Lead to where?

She fluttered her eyes open. Bit by bit the darkness receded; a half-lit side street, a cold and wet little gutter in which her feet stood, the entrance of the club visible like a target to a sniper, about a hundred meters away.

Kijé leaned against the wall behind her. “Captain, I don’t want to have sex with you here, okay?”

“Blast me if ever I suggest somethin’ like that, ‘specially when yer plastered. Can ye see the entrance?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Now we wait.” Sarkli pulled something small and rolled-up from his jacket pocket and played at flicking it up and down his palm with the dexterity of a knife thrower.

Stars, men were so stupid they couldn’t even locate the nearest litter basket on their own; Kijé glanced around for it. Then, slowly, as cold sobering realisation swept on her along with a gust of wind, she said, “Please don’t tell me you’re going to throw that thing at whoever comes into that nightclub.”

“When I do, be ready to run. The bouncers have military-grade scanners.”

“...Why?”

“Heh, chik, the rich gotta protect their richness from the ugly rotten poor sods like me, that’s why.”

‘Like _me’_ , he’d said. Not ‘like _us’_. Was that lumping her with the ‘rich’? Then another thought cracked the planetary surface open under Kijé’s cold bare feet. “I—I get why you took me here. And why you want to harass some innocent partygoers.”

“Innocent, bah!”

She leaned forwards, yanked her purse off his arm, and held up the purse to her chest, fumbling with the outer pocket zip to extract the pen vibroblade. Just in case.  “You want us to get in trouble together, to be partners. So you’ll have leverage on me and you’ll make me spy on the general for you.”

“Whatever floats yer repulsorcraft, chik—oi, speakin’ of repulsorcraft, look at that.” Sarkli stopped flipping the dirty pad and peered towards the square.

Before Kijé could remind herself it was a trick to toss her out of focus, she was peering too. A chromed speeder, the same dark blue hue as the _Executor_ if the _Executor_ had been spit-polished and glided to a halt in front of the club. Two stormtroopers got off the speeder first, followed by two officers. Kijé squinted through the distance and her drunkenness, making her knitted eyebrow sweat; a woman—she couldn’t see the rank insignia, but she resembled the garrison commander, General Shale—and a man. Lieutenant Veers. Stumbling under the streetlights behind Shale, glaring at his surroundings like a nightspider on the hunt. The same cruel face he had when he trash-talked her and treated General Veers like gualaar dung.

“Here’s the reason why the paparazzi were kept home.” Sarkli guffawed without mirth.

“I take it back,” Kijé croaked.  “Innocent partygoers my arse.” She plopped her purse into his arms. “Give me that pad.” She held up her right palm, without losing sight of Lieutenant Veers as he was trotted between Shale and the two stormtroopers towards the entrance. Her hand closed on the squishy wet thing.

“Run five steps, toss, then we flee,” Sarkli’s voice, urgent, laughter-like, rumbled in her ear. “Go!”

The next few seconds were a jumble of racing heart, the speeder and Lieutenant Veers and General Shale and the stormtroopers and the bouncers suddenly much nearer than they’d seemed, stinging cold slippery ground under her feet, “Stop, chik, nawt that close!” She skidded to a halt, fixed her eyes on Lieutenant Veers, lifted her left arm at a forty-five degree angle and drew back her right, like Captain Visdei had taught them when throwing thermal detonators. Then she threw.

She turned and ran before the projectile hit. Judging by the hooting noise Sarkli welcomed her with back in the side street, it did.

“Hey, over there!” cried a helmet-vocoderised voice. Too late. Sarkli snatched her hand and trailed her down the narrow street; he was taller and stronger and faster, and keeping up with his pace sent her almost tumbling down and several times she bumped against the walls to her left and right. They emerged into a small square with plant pots and speeder bike parking poles, and people under the streetlights.

Once they were past the parking area and on the sidewalk of a main street, Sarkli slowed down to a halt. “Now,” he panted, “let’s look casual.”

By which he meant crashing on a bench between two nlorna flower pots. Kijé, out of breath, followed suit. There was blood on her toes, but they didn’t hurt.

“Yer purse.” He passed it to her.

“Thanks.”

Sarkli pointed to a kiosk at the other side of the street. “Fancy an ice cream?” The holo-sign above the kiosk read _The Original Cerean Cones!!!_ , but both sentients in apron and scoop-shaped hat at the counter were Humans.

“Yes, please.” She gently pushed the purse back to Sarkli as he tried to hand it back to her. “I’m buying this round.”

Sarkli grinned and bowed so low his face almost touched his knees. “Any preferred taste?”

Kijé glanced at the holomenu. “Hoth Snow Special.”

“Right-o.”

She watched him saunter to the kiosk. Two girls shot a look at him, and moved farther. What would he think of the pen vibroblade? Would he realise, if he saw it inside the purse as he rummaged for the wallet, that Kijé had been ready to draw it on him? He was a nice and fun chap, sure, but he also had no scruples about spying on the Hero of Hoth. And he had just gotten Lieutenant Annice Kijé drunk and antisocial. _Dammit, double dammit, Annice_.

“Here ye go!” Smiling from ear to ear, he handed her the ice cream. It was a scone cup with white ice cream, red syrup possibly symbolising the blood of the Rebels, and a sugar tiny AT-AT on top.

In his other hand, he was holding a can of Corellian beer.

“Thank you.” She took the ice cream. “You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you, Captain?”

“Say it again?” He popped the can open and sat next to her.

One stormtrooper moved awkwardly through the passers-by, as if ashamed of their blaster. Or checking faces through their helmet scanner. Kijé looked down on her ice cream and started eating, in slow and deliberate mouthfuls but without noticing the taste. Plasteel-plated armoured legs flicked in and out at the edge of her vision. Kijé forced another chunk of ice cream into her mouth.

“Snowman’s melted away,” she heard Sarkli whisper, and she sighed in relied, nearly spitting out a drool of molten ice cream. So, they hadn’t seen them. The dirty secret would remain between her and Sarkli.

“Annice?”

“Yes?”

“I swear ‘pon ol’ Boonta, the Empire an’ the stars, I didnae ask ye out tonight to force yer help. May I burn down wi’ my ship if I did.”

“Okay.”

“Ye don’t believe me. Can’t blame ye one bit.” He fell silent. At the corner of her eye she could see his hands locked on his lap, pensively rocking the beer can. “I owe ye a new pair o’ shoes, too.”

“Are you going to make up by taking me out shopping? Shopping for _shoes_? With a very girly girl?”

“How’s that a problem? Nine hells, I wished my mom was so rich she could shop for fancy shoes!”

Kijé chewed the sugar AT-AT and smiled. A spy to spy on a spy, all right. Unlike with Chenda, she was stronger and smarter now. And Sarkli, at the end of the day, was on the same side as her; the Rebel sympathiser was someone else—Lieutenant Veers, maybe. She felt a pang of guilt at having thrown the dirty pad at him. Not guilt for him himself, but for General Veers; it was unfair his son was the sort of scumbag you throw dirty things at.

“Ain’t ye finishin’ it?”

“Oh... nah, I’m not that hungry anymore.”

“Lemme finish it. ‘Tis a shame to bin good food.”

“A valuable lesson you learned by infiltrating underfed Rebel cells?” What the heck was this question? She was drunk, double dammit. Time to go home.

“Eh, that too. But it was naw better at home. My mom an’ uncle Fir lived through one helluva big famine. Hutts used the wheat fields ‘round Rikuba City as dumping ground for toxic waste, y’know. The crops that grew there were pretty much poison wi’ leaves.”

“Let me guess, the Republic did nothing to help the hungry Axxilans.”

“Fuck-all they did.”

“Typical. Just like with Naboo when the Trade Federation blockaded us. When did this famine happen, anyway?”

“Uncle Fir an’ mom were but wee bukees, is all I know. Oi, is that blood? On yer feet?”

“Hm-hm. I broke a nail, I think.” She flexed her toes. It stung and fresh blood oozed, glistening under the artificial light.

“Dab it with a tissue. I’ll call ye a cab.”

“Ask me if I _want_ to go home first, won’t you?” She looked up at him, putting up a smile she hoped expressed confidence and defiance in a not too drunken and sloppy way.

Sarkli smiled back. “Right, right. So, wanna go home already, chik?”

“I regret I do. But,” she found the make-up wipes in her purse and bent over to dab her injured foot, wincing at the burn of the soap on raw skin, “I will definitely take you up on that shopping trip.” _I’ve got my eyes on you same as you on me, spy boy._ “It’s a threat, Captain.” _I won’t let you harm the general_.

He raised his hands and, still smiling, produced an Empire-issue comlink from his pocket and commed for a taxi.


	17. Chapter 17

There was no Rebellion to flee to. Not anymore, not for him.

Zev tossed the jogan juice can and the empty pack of biscuits to the floor and dashed to the nearest restroom. He stumbled into a stall, locked the door and leaned against it. The stall reeked of detergent, citrusy with a metallic hint. The smell filled his nostrils like poisonous gas. Not breathing at all would have been the only honourable option; this planet’s oxygen was yet another Imperial thing that corrupted him as soon as it touched his lungs.

The overhead white light burned like he was staring at a star with unshielded eyes. The john was so white and polished he had the absolute certainty it was staring back at him. It also inflated and deflated, and it either did that in sync with Zev’s shallow breathing, or it was Zev’s breathing that mirrored it.

He slid down to the floor; that was easy enough, since his legs and his spine were as boneless as if he’d been narco-spiced.

The suicide pill... Shit, he’d left it home. No, not _home_. At his host family’s home. He didn’t want to call them his family even if it only meant host family. His family was his mother, and she was dead. Thank the Goddesses, because if she were alive to see the HoloNet News...

His stomach churned. He gasped and hurled himself to the john. His face dangled over the clear water at the bottom, where the scent of disinfectant was at its strongest. Zev tasted rot and death in his throat, but the urge to vomit drew back. If not a reflection, he could see a shadow of himself in the hyper-polished ceramic and the water. The face of an Imp, as always. He slammed a fist on the rim of the john.

His eyes, low, fell onto the buckle of his belt. A belt. Yes. He still had a belt. He turned to look at the door; there was a coat hanger on its upper part.

It was perfect.

His heart knocked hard against his breastbone. Lieutenant Veers was not walking out of here alive. Just one Imperial less for the Rebels to kill. It was enough. Every little bit of help made a difference to them.

Footsteps. Water flushing in a sink. The whirr of a hand dryer.

He unbuckled and took off his belt. One leg up, then the other, and he was standing. He fixed his eyes on the coat hanger while his hands fastened the buckle again, fashioning a noose. He tried on the noose, holding his breath by reflex as the synth-leather brushed his neck. It fitted. It was that easy. The easiest escape route from the Empire. He tied the loose end of the belt to the coat hanger. His hands were sweating under the gloves and the hair standing on his forearms.

A toilet flushed a few stalls away.

Zev turned with his back to the door and slid the noose around his neck. He tried to think of his mother. She would have hated what the Empire had done to the galaxy since her death and, it followed, she would have hated his father; but would she approve of her son taking his life like this? This should sting him, he imagined. It did not. The pulse in his neck throbbed against the stiff smooth synth-leather of the belt, his eyes lay fixed on the immaculate wall above the john, and he felt nothing but his heartbeat, that disgusting, trivial tangible sensation. The moral apathy was so offensive. Maybe he deserved to die, after all.

Centimetre by centimetre, he slid one foot off the floor.

“Lieutenant Veers?” begged a male voice somewhere towards the restroom entrance. “Lieutenant Veers, are you here? I swear he must be here, ma’am—the cameras clearly show he went in here...”

Another voice, older and female and harsh, “Is Lieutenant Zevulon Veers here?”

The ISB. Here for him. They wouldn’t catch him alive. Better dead of his own doing than tortured to death. _Come on. Come on, you coward. Lift the other foot._ His boot had grown a magnet that kept the sole anchored to the floor.

“I swear,” grumbled the woman, “if his father weren’t one of Vader’s dickholders...” Then, commanding, “Search the stalls.”

A familiar clatter followed; people moving around in stormtrooper armour. One door after another hissed open. _Imperial Garrison Standard Security Protocol, Art. 55, Paragraph C: ‘Stormtroopers corps personnel on guard service are granted unrestricted access to standard class storage and restroom areas, and are equipped with clearances for all the locks_.’ In Commander Laibach’s translation: yes, stormtroopers can check on you even while you’re poodooing.

Zev’s brain attempted to calculate how many seconds it would take a Human around his size to choke or break his neck in a short drop. The result was an inner scream of TOO LATE, ABORT MISSION. Zev slipped out of the noose as soon as the lock hissed. The door opened and a stormtrooper stared back at him past the threshold.

“Did—” Zev coughed. “Did someone just call me—”

“Mother of Moons be thanked,” the same male voice cooed, “there he is!”

Two officers, the man and the woman, plus a second stormtrooper, came into view. A junior officer with her sleeves half rolled up her arms stood at attention by the sinks, plastering a blank face over her utter confusion.

The man was a captain, the woman a general. Zev’s head was light and his body perspiring under the uniform. All of a sudden he felt self-conscious about how poorly it fitted him, then angry at himself for wanting to look like a proper Imperial. He didn’t know the captain, but the general was General Shale, the Kuat garrison commander. As wizened and hard-eyed as Zev remembered her from the infantry tactics seminars on Prefsbelt, her tress of hair now greyer. Had they seriously sent a general to arrest him?

“Lieutenant,” Shale’s mouth curled up as if she’d smelled a shit-filled john, “for stars’ sake, make yourself presentable.” She shooed away the confused junior officer.

“Ma’am, with all due respect,” Zev croaked, “I was doing nothing presentable.”

“You have inherited your father’s brazenness. Dreadful, yet predictable.”

Zev wanted to punch her. _Bitch, my mother was the brazen one_. If he tried to punch General Shale, would the stormtroopers shoot him? No, the general and the captain might get caught in the crossfire. They would just grab him and—

“Lieutenant, don’t just stand there!” Shale’s tone snapped into a frontline one. “Tidy yourself up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He yanked his belt off the coat hanger, disentangled the noose and put the belt back on; his tunic was wrinkled at the front and he patted and tugged at it until it was smoothed down.

If Shale had noticed the noose shape of his belt, she was putting a sabacc face to it; or simply didn’t give a damn.

Her steel-eyed glare activated his awareness to the foul taste of his unbrushed teeth, the stickiness of sweated underclothes, the oily skin of his face. Unprompted, he stepped in front of the nearest sink, slipped off his gloves and his cap and splashed cold water over his eyes and his cheeks where stubble stung and pimples burned. Then he rinsed his mouth; a rosy streak of blood mixed in with the water that swirled down the drain.

“By the stars, he needs a shave,” said the captain.

Correct, but the querulous disapproving tone offended Zev. “I don’t have a razor, sir.”

Shale cut in, “It doesn’t matter. Hurry up, Lieutenant.”

Zev tore a towel off the dispenser and dried his face and his hands, combed his hair with his fingers, keeping his eyes low so as not to see his face in the mirror, then put the gloves and cap back on. “I’m ready, ma’am.”

“About time. Come.” Shale turned and started out of the restroom; the captain followed her like a tooka waggling his tail for food scraps.

Zev sensed the stormtroopers behind him, armour clattering a bit too close than was necessary to escort a free man, but a bit too far for the escort of a prisoner—he knew how to judge that distance.

The captain left them at the spaceport main gates, stiffening his paunchy body into a salute. The relief was all too readable on his face, the smile betrayed by its own genuineness that had nothing to do with the desire to please a superior. Zev realised the guy was the spaceport military commander.

The Rebellion had commanders the likes of Saw Gerrera, Gial Ackbar, Hera Syndulla, Jan Dodonna, and the Empire sustained itself upon sycophantic molluscs like this guy. Unbelievable how it had not yet collapsed on its own. There were the Tarkins, too, monsters by all means but not devoid of cunning—and Zev could _almost_ respect his father on the grounds of brute strength and animal bravery. Commander Laibach fell into the Tarkin category, though he liked to act like a mollusc; Shale had been a General Veers type in the Clone Wars and in the early Imperial campaigns. Scuttlebutt had long since relegated her to the molluscs. The Kuat City garrison was a nice rock to attach oneself to.

The night was breezy, punctuated by streetlights that surrounded the spaceport in a clinical white light and turned a cosy yellow farther into the city streets, the sky starless and the orbital ring invisible behind the clouds. Invisible didn’t mean gone. A starship soared at a high altitude, three green lights flashing in a triangle—a Lambda shuttle in all likelihood. It could have been him, Velita Lully and the other defectors, flying towards freedom.

A black, chrome-sleek armoured speeder was parked in wait. The back door lifted open and Shale climbed on board. After a moment’s hesitation, Zev followed. The stormtroopers didn’t nudge him with the butt of their blasters. No way this was an arrest. Far too much courtesy for a lowly creature like him, General Veers’ brat or not.

The inside of the speeder smelled of fresh leather and, once the door shut, of the slight disinfectant tang carried in the air through anti-gas filters. It was like breathing on a Star Destroyer. Through the blast-proof transparisteel pane, Zev could barely hear the last stormtrooper climb onto the seat next to the driver. Shale pressed a button on the door handle and spoke through the comm, “To the Café Select.”

“Ma’am?” Zev said while the speeder’s engine revved. He hated the meekness in his tone. “Permission to respectfully ask what all this is about?”

“Propaganda, lad.”

Zev had no idea what the Huttfucking fuck that meant, but cold sweat popped on his brow and under his shirt.

“Do you have the faintest clue,” Shale asked, galaxy-weary, “what the Café Select even is?”

“...No, ma’am.”

“The late Director Krennic designed the interior as a gift to the Kuati Chamber of Commerce. After his death, the Kuati converted it into an officers-only club. _They_ decide who is allowed to get in.”

“…and _I_ am?”

Shale’s nostrils flared. “You are valuable propaganda material. They want to show the galaxy what a grand time you are having with the rest of the Imperial gilded youth at their bar.”

“I am a bar advertisement testimonial now?”

“These are your orders, Lieutenant. Only accredited Press Corps personnel will be present, and they will leave as soon as their work is done. They will edit out your ridiculous stubble and zits, do not worry.”

“Will my...” A ghost noose constricted his throat. “Will General Veers be present?”

“The Press Corps marketing team,” Shale’s face further wrinkled in disgust, “said it would appear too artificial, after that moving reunion on the HoloNet News.”

“...I understand, ma’am.”

Shale exhaled sharply through her nose and said no more. The stormtrooper in front of them sat a bit too stiff to be comfortable, and Zev knew from experience and observation it wasn’t just an effect of the armour. Got to look smart before the general. Zev was glad someone else than him was suffering. The pleasure had nothing to do with sympathy; he was glad to be an indirect cause of that trooper’s discomfort.

The Kuati night rolled along outside the window. Yellow streetlights, colourful bar signs and holo-ads, white speeder lights, all muted in the dark-tinted pane, an artificial night superimposed over the natural one. Zev smiled at his own thought, his forehead almost touching the pane. Omar Berenko, the bard of Varykino Lake, would have poured himself tea with a pinch of glitterstim and penned a thousand-word epic poem through this Kuati night and the dark pane; it would have exposed the underlying truth and the all-encompassing misery without speaking it, morphed it verse by verse into a graphic yet tantalising sexual fantasy. Maybe salvation, maybe death. Zev had long since stopped bothering with poetry, since all his poems ended up deleted from the datapad or torn to flimsi shreds as soon as footsteps would approach in the cadets’ dorm.

The speeder glided to a halt in a parking square, in front of a pink and yellow holo-sign. Zev peered to read the sign through the dark glass: _SELECT_. Lower, in small font: _OPEN. Authorised customers only_. The polished café doors were guarded by two Human bouncers with military-grade visors that resembled sunglasses.

Zev flinched as the speeder door slid upwards open. He tottered last out on the sidewalk. The streetlights mingled with the glitzy sign colours and the swirl of lights reawakened the queasiness in his head. The night air bit at him through the uniform; it was cold on starships, too, but planetside cold was always different. Wet. Soaking you through. An autumn night on Denon.

“Follow me,” Shale hissed, back upright, stiff posture, fists clenched behind her back, dripping contempt. All things considered, it was small wonder she wasn’t happy about babysitting him because it looked good on the HoloNet.

Sweet Goddesses, had he just spared a pitiful thought for kriffing General Jylia Shale of the Imperial Army? This old-faced, lean-bodied, flat-bosomed, skinny-arsed dry cunt had been an instrument of the Empire’s iron will since day fucking one, subjugating seven star systems at blaster-point—

Like a bird flying into his face, something thwacked him across the left cheek. It ricocheted onto his shoulder, and he flailed his arms to grab it or shove it away; he ended up catching that little something between his palms. “Hey, over there!” growled a stormtrooper, the youthful feminine voice hoarse through the helmet vocoder.

“Go,” said Shale. The stormtrooper broke into a run; one of the bouncers said, “Got a reading. In the alleyway.” The trooper ran faster and disappeared into the unlit side street.

Shale stood before Zev. “Are you hurt?” Zero concern. Near-boredom.

Zev’s eyes fell to his uniform. Then to the thing. He opened his palms to reveal a bloodied, wrinkled menstrual pad.

Shale snorted. “I was not informed this would happen. Bin it and let’s carry on. You,” she told the remaining stormtrooper, “search the other direction.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Not informed—?”

Shale was already strutting towards the Select gate. A built-in retinal scanner on the door blinked a soothing blue; the door opened, letting out a muffled wave of smooth jazz music. Zev dropped the pad to the sidewalk and hurried to the door, tearing off his gloves and sniffing them as discreetly as he could under the bouncers’ visor-stares. Thank the Goddesses neither his hands nor his gloves reeked of blood or rotten pussy.

He stepped in front of the scanner once the door had slid closed behind Shale. Within seconds the scanner blinked blue for him, too, and the door opened. He held his gloves at their wrist edges and chucked them in the first rubbish bin he passed by. Fuck if he cared about the payroll detraction for a new pair of gloves.

“Don’t be shy.” Shale grabbed him by an arm, her talon-like hand small and steely, and dragged him towards a cluster of middle-aged Imperials in Navy and Army olive drab, and a few in Press Corps blue.

“Please smile, Lieutenant Veers,” somebody said. Zev bared his teeth to the whirr and flash of a camera. Shale’s grip moved to his right hand. Dimmer lights hit the sides of his field of vision. The bar faded to a blur of blues and greys; he could pretend it was devoid of Imperials. All too soon, he had to blink himself back to reality.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, General.” In his clearing eyesight, Zev caught a glimpse of a Human figure in a dark blue Press Corps uniform walking away. Shale let go of him.

“Gentlebeings,” she growled. Collective stiffening of spines. Many of the middle-aged officers were armed with cocktail glasses. Shale went on, “At ease, carry on with your... merrymaking. Anya, a word.”

The woman Shale called upon stepped forth brandishing a cocktail in each hand and a newscaster grin. “General, what a pleasure—”

“Care to explain why someone threw a used menstrual pad at an Imperial officer’s head just outside the door?”

Zev breathed in to say something, but it was a rhetorical question whose answer Shale didn’t wait for. “I am working under the assumption this was your plan. The _hopeful_ assumption. Because if that is not the case,” she stabbed Anya’s rank badge with a gloved forefinger, “it may well have been an attacker throwing a thermal detonator.”

“General, I beg you!” Anya held the cocktail in her right hand close to her chest and timidly offered the one in her left to Shale. “This was indeed all according to a pre-arranged plan! I must admit the man has unorthodox means but—”

“A filthy pad—”

“Well, that’s another thing we can accuse the non-aligned press of. Sexism. That’s a nasty charge, isn’t it, yes?” With each word, the grin brightened on her face again. “Trespass into Imperial Press Corps zone, plus vandalism, _plus_ sexism!” Anya laughed in delight. “That’s it, this time we shut off those treasonous little shits and their pathetic _indie press_ once and for all! Please, General, have a drink—”

Zev backed away, before the full weight of the crime he’d just been part of registered with his mind. Have a drink, yeah. He needed a drink.

He made his furtive way around the counter, observing the bar; it was dimly lit by blue lights, felt more like a Kaminoan cloning lab than a watering hole, and the late Director Krennic (or whoever had taken over the job of supplying furniture once Krennic had devoted himself to weapons of mass destruction) had traded all chairs for divans and poufs. The smooth jazz was bland turbolift music that would have made any real musician turn homicidal, like not even Figrin D’an after finding out Evar Orbus was playing on the same planet as him. The tables were slabs of black polished synthwood reminiscent of war room tables on Star Destroyers. Uncanny with the garish colourful cocktail glasses littering them. Abstract paintings in bicolour patterns that slowly changed from colder to warmer hues decorated the walls. In a corner there was a holoplaque; Zev squinted to read the name _Orson Krennic_ and the numbers underneath, dates, one might be the battle of Scarif, the other prior to the Clone Wars, a birth date. _Rest in pieces, asshole_. This bar looked like poodoo anyway; kitsch that only people like Commander Laibach would dare call classy.

After a bit of prowling and peeking at the baristas’ side of the counter, Zev stood in the small queue in front of the beer taps, gazing down at his feet to avoid eye contact.

“Bertolt,” said the woman in front of him, “make way.”

“That’s the one order of yours I’m ever going to disobey, ma’am.”

“Make way and let Lieutenant Veers pass, please.”

Zev felt, or imagined to feel, her stare on him. “Sorry, there must be a mistake,” he said, not daring to look her in the eyes and settling instead for her uniform-clad rack. “I have no idea who this Lieutenant Veers chap is.”

“You were on the ferry shuttle yesterday,” said the male officer next to her. Bertolt. The Mandalorian TIE fighter officer. The one who’d picked Zev’s fucking suicide pill off the fucking floor and fucking handed it to him.

Zev winced, casting glances left and right for places to run away to. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.”

“Haha! Same voice, too. Can’t blame you for wanting to stay anonymous. Sorry, Lieutenant, but I’m cursed with the eyesight of a fighter pilot; no way in _haran_ I’d forget a face, especially when it crops up on the HoloNet the day after.”

Right, yes, the fucking HoloNet. As if there weren’t enough reminders already. Zev glared at Bertolt; one thing he’d already forgotten about the Mandalorian officer was that he was ten centimetres taller than him, and far more muscular. A figure that belonged in a beskar armour—or a clone trooper armour—rather than the Imperial olive rags he was wearing.

“So, gentlemen,” said the captain, what even was her name, Zev remembered overhearing it, Nona or Nana or something like that, “Vinta Harvest, Gizer pale blue, or Corellian dry stout?” She had advanced to stand the first in line before the beer taps, where the ‘tender droid waited with a clean stein at the ready.

“Gizer!” said Bertolt.

The captain’s eyes turned to Zev. And Bertolt’s eyes and the droid’s photoreceptors. “I… the Corellian one.” He hurriedly added, “A half pint, please,” talking over whatever the captain was ordering. The polite smile on the captain’s face froze for a moment. Then she swiped a debit chip over the cash reader the droid offered her with a secondary arm, while its main ones filled two pint steins and a smaller glass.

“Ever too generous, Ninon,” said Bertolt.

“Flatterer.”

“Don’t you agree, Lieutenant?”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“My pleasure. So,” the half pint was filled first and she took it from the droid’s mechanical hand and passed it to Zev, “do you mind if I call you by your first name? We are all on first name basis tonight.”

“General Shale did not inform me of this.”

She laughed as she grabbed her drink. “I only mean my crew and I. In fact, I issued them this order for the whole duration of this shore leave. The name is Ninon Jeskeith, by the way. Now that we’re all set,” she eyed the blueish foaming stein Bertolt had just received, “let’s lay claim to a table. Please, Zevulon, do join us, won’t you?”

The alternative was Shale, and maybe more of the Imperial Press Corps. “Of course.”

The way her smile warmed and her head tilted, the split second of stillness before she glided off leading the way to the back of the barroom, let redjacket wasps loose in Zev’s stomach. She sought his company because he was General Veers’ son, that was obvious and unsurprising. But did this all also mean she sought to fuck him?

“Hey, you heard her,” Bertolt prompted him. “Let’s go. Even if she’s being informal, she’s still captain.”

Zev nodded and followed. Spinning it like it was an order, albeit a friendly-worded one, did help him feel better; the wasp buzzing died down along for his agency and personal responsibility. So much for a wannabe Rebel; the Empire had managed to turn him dependent on its structures, on orders and permissions. He was beyond salvation.

“What’s that gloomy face for, eh, Zevulon?”

Zev jerked his head up at the doubly foreign sound of his full name spoken in a Mandalorian accent.

Bertolt patted his big hand on Zev’s shoulder as they walked. “You would have rather spent the evening with your old man?”

“Please, just call me Zev.”

The Goddesses be thanked, Bertolt retreated his hand. “Fine. And I’m Bertolt, by the way. Bertolt Keldau. Maybe you heard of my cousin from your father; Lieutenant Tonia Keldau, she’s in the Thundering Herd.”

“I am not in the habit of discussing work matters with General Veers.” Zev fantasised about burning off with a cutting torch the chunk of shoulder where Bertolt had touched him.

“Makes sense. I should comm Tonia and ask her myself what she’s been up to. Just stop being self-conscious about family quarrels we have officially gotten over anyway, I guess.”

Zev said nothing. He tried to burn off the edge of his mounting anger by walking faster. It didn’t work, and it landed him sitting on a pouf that seemed to deflate like a faulty emergency raft under his arse, right under Jeskeith’s eyes across the low table, which was turquoise-backlit in a chequered pattern.

The music was unobtrusive here; much to Zev’s dismay, this meant unhindered conversation. Jeskeith kicked it off, cradling the beer stein in her hands, “I heard you tell Bertolt that you’d like to be referred to as Zev. I, for one, think Zevulon is a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.”

“If I correctly remember my Core Worlds Culture class, Zevulon was a holy man in the Yllist tradition, wasn’t he?”

She did remember correctly, and expressed herself with too much assurance for the question and the self-doubt to be genuine. She knew the answer and was being polite. Zev brushed off the attempt. “Yllism is not the preferred word. It was coined for Basic-speakers, by a Basic-speaking academic with a deficient mastery of the old South-Western Denoni languages. The Hrönir community is well aware it’s been a galaxy-wide accepted term for centuries, in religious studies scholarly discourse and common parlance, but we still like _our_ word better.”

Jeskeith’s smiling expression turned into eyebrow-raised surprise. “I did not know that. Hrönir—I will remember the proper name next time.”

She pronounced the word right. At first that pleased Zev, but she was an Imperial; the pleasure morphed into resentment and a sense of protectiveness over his mother’s faith.

“Thank you for explaining the matter to me,” Jeskeith continued. “Would you mind sharing the tradition behind your name, then? I’d rather trust you than my textbook.”

 _Why so? We are both subject to censorship_. The Goddesses knew how badly he wanted to say that aloud. He sipped creamy, bitter beer over it. “A holy man, indeed. Touched by the Goddesses but not a blood relation to them, otherwise it would have been forbidden to name children after him. He compiled one hundred books of holy scriptures under the goddess Yllagim’s dictation, confining himself to a lifetime of work, aging at his miniature table till his beard touched the floor. So entranced he was in divine inspiration, that he failed to notice a war had broken out. A group of enemy soldiers barged into his house, and in order to preserve the scrolls from desecration he grabbed them, jumped out the window and hurled himself into the sea.”

“Wait,” said Bertolt, scratching his short-cropped black hair. “If he hadn’t noticed there was a war going on, how did he know the soldiers were enemy?”

Zev shrugged. “Despite the Empire’s best efforts, many sentients are inclined to view soldiers of any kind as enemy, by default. Intellectuals especially.” And one couldn’t blame them, since the peaks of intellectualism the Empire aimed to replace real thinkers with were trained momongs like Lieutenant Kijé.

Jeskeith hm-hmed in agreement, sipping her beer. Zev wished this place had windows overlooking the sea.

Bertolt didn’t seem convinced yet. “You think? On Mandalore, every artist or writer or philosopher only had enemies insofar as their clan made enemies.” He smirked. “Which means they always made _a lot_ of enemies.”

“Just imagine starting a war over an unflattering painted portrait.” Jeskeith waited for Bertolt to laugh first, and once he did she joined him.

To avoid having to laugh with them, Zev took another mouthful of beer. It was like drinking polluted seawater, salty and thick.

The relief was temporary. No escape from the Empire was possible for him. The Empire in its current form was this bun-haired brunette with full lips, long-lashed eyes, jutting tits under the uniform tunic, and wide shoulders that suggested more than the average work-out hours suggested by the Navy regulations. Jeskeith leaned towards him, flicking her tongue over a fugitive drop of beer on her upper lip. “I met your father in person, last night.”

“I didn’t know he was into younger women.”

One of Jeskeith’s trimmed eyebrows quirked. “I was just going to say he’s more handsome in person than in holos. Even his voice sounds more… Human, if that makes any sense.”

“Oh, does he not appear _Human_ ,” Zev spat out the word like it tasted foul, “in recruitment posters? Isn’t he supposed to symbolise, among other things, the superiority of Humans to all other species in the galaxy?”

“If that’s the case, _adike_ ,” Bertolt interjected, his beer stein a few centimetres under his mouth, “well, no offence to the Veers family but they should have picked Viceroy Saxon.”

Jeskeith rolled her eyes and the exaggeration of her facial mimicry irked Zev, like he’d just heard her tell a blatant lie. “The galaxy prefers _living_ heroes, Bertolt,” she said.

“True that, but a dead hero is sexier.”

Zev caught himself nodding. Well, he would have liked the Hero of Hoth to be dead; one small gain for the Rebellion in that battle.

“I don’t even know why I still try to contradict him.” Jeskeith smiled at Zev, faking weariness. “He’s got a head made of beskar alloy, I swear.” She pursed her lips as if expecting a kiss and took a sip of beer.

“You too, Zev, look better in person than on the HoloNet,” said Bertolt.

“Come on.” Zev gingerly touched, with fingertips cold from the beer glass, the zits on his cheek that started itching and burning as soon as they were noticed.

“Oh, yes. You’re a cutie.”

“I have pustules.” Of all the ways to deflect an unwanted compliment, the whiny and insecure bratty route was not the best. He eyed the beer, the glass tauntingly almost full.

“You have youth, _ad’ika_. It passes far too soon if you ask me.”

“Zevulon, quick,” Jeskeith held a hand to her face and pretended to whisper, “tell him you already have a boyfriend and are committed and monogamous!”

Bertolt grunted. “It was an innocent compliment! Who do you take me for?”

“A coffin jockey on shore leave.”

“I—I only like women anyway,” Zev muttered while they laughed together like those young cadets in the mess hall who seemed to be such a happy bunch of good friends, and to whom he never answered when they called at him to come sit with them.

He and the dark surface of the beer stared at each other. He wanted to hurl the glass, hit the laughing man and woman in front of him. Instead, he took a long draught, chugging until he had to stop and gasp for air.

They were not laughing anymore and they were watching him. “Easy, _ad’ika_ ,” Bertolt warned.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Every word rolled through the thick oiliness of the beer flavour. Zev coughed; it just made the sensation worse. He held back a belch, not out of respect for his companions but because he feared it might trigger vomit.

“Have you had dinner?” asked Jeskeith.

“Yes.” Those few biscuits he’d wolfed through at the spaceport had long since been digested. His liquid-filled stomach gurgled. “A bit.”

“I’ll fetch you something.” She got to her feet and walked to the counter, where Zev soon lost track of her fine afterburners amid the other patrons and the low lights.

Bertolt shook his stein. “Don’t get funny ideas, _ad’ika_. She’s being so nice to you because she is on shore leave.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Hey now, I’m foolish enough to fly an eyeball, but not so foolish as to crush on my CO.” He drank a large fill and smacked his lips at the end.

“But on Mandalore it’s an accepted possibility, isn’t it? Bo-Katan Kryze and Pre Vizsla—”

“—don’t represent all of us, neither in politics nor in beshing. I trust I don’t have to translate this word.” He narrowed his eyes and smirked. “So, you heard the naughty stories about the Death Watch, eh? Which ones?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a whole literary genre all across the Mando’ade, you know.”

Zev shook his head. How did a Mandalorian TIE fighter pilot know what a literary genre was?

“Randy ballads and randy holos. Saxon banned it all, of course, but the Kyr’tsad have that villainous allure folks are drawn to even when they’re supposed to hate the characters.”

“Ah. I see. My CO—my _former_ CO caught more than one Imperial crewmember jacking off to holoporn about Rebels. Most of the times, he shrugged it off as a necessary evil.”

“Was the porn any good?”

“Rubbish. Hypersexualised Imperial hero converts hypersexualised Rebel captive through unrealistically fulfilling sex.” It pained him to lie about why he considered it rubbish, “No plot variety. Seen one, seen all. But I guess it counts as propaganda for our side.”

Jeskeith returned with a bowl of crispy stuff Zev smelled and his stomach wailed for.

“I hope you like Fennesan mountain nerf bacon,” said Jeskeith. “Here’s the dipping sauce. I forgot to ask the ‘tender what it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s prisht-fruit cream.”

“Thank you.”

“Eat up, eat up.”

The bacon was hot off the pan; it burned Zev’s fingertips but he tore into it nonetheless, and only after a couple mouthfuls he remembered to try the dipping sauce, fruity and fresh. He glanced up to meet the eyes of his companions. “This is embarrassing to ask but,” he said with his mouth half-full, “was this supposed to be shared?”

Jeskeith chuckled.

Bertolt seemed concerned. “You’re like a strill tearing into its prey. When was the last time you ate? Tell the truth this time.”

“Breakfast, I guess.” The bacon was making him thirsty, so he drank. The beer tasted much better in combination with the meat. It didn’t upset his guts anymore, and a lightheaded happiness started to wear down his anger. You just couldn’t stay angry while you were eating warm food.

“No, no, Ninon, I’ll buy this round,” said Bertolt.

Zev didn’t look up to watch him go.

“I take it you liked it, Zevulon?” asked Jeskeith.

“Please, I told you, just call me Zev. Otherwise, Lieutenant Veers is fine.” It was not fine to carry that surname, it was not fine that the whole galaxy had watched General Veers embrace him like a long-lost beloved son. Yet, right now, he didn’t care much. He cared even less once he’d taken another gulp of beer. He was getting closer to the bottom of the glass, where the drink was most turbid. “It was very kind of you. The bacon, I mean.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Are you under the impression I would mention it? To my father, perhaps?”

She was silent. Soulless music and the din of conversations elsewhere in the bar drifted between them.

“He did not strike me as the type to accept his favour being curried by befriending his son, no.”

“So… this isn’t about him? Is it about me?”

She sighed. He spied the graceful rise and fall of her breasts as her chest heaved. “I think I know how you feel. My parents used to force me into friendships with the younglings of the _proper_ families. If I remember well, they once paid the parents of a commoner kid I was besties with to move her to another school and never let her meet me again.”

“Harsh. But we’re soldiers and we are used to harshness, aren’t we?”

“To a six standard year old Human, it _is_ harsh.”

Zev didn’t like to agree with her. But maybe she was a little bit better than Lieutenant Kijé. Maybe… maybe Ninon Jeskeith was like Velita Lully, reaching out to him as a kindred spirit. And here he was refusing her again, refusing perhaps a new chance to become a Rebel. He stuffed the last cold bits of bacon into his mouth, followed by the leftover beer, and then looked at Jeskeith.

She was sitting with her legs crossed at the knees, hands on her lap cradling the half-empty stein. The modesty of her pose and her serious expression made Zev feel guilty about giving her that body once-over.

“I’m Kuati, born and bred.” Almost a soft-spoken apology. “I know how things work here, and I can attest everyone from now on will be after you—”

Zev’s heart pummelled his ribcage. They were after him. Captain Sarkli’s investigation. The Empire was after him. Did she know?

“—and by ‘after you’, I mean after the Hero of Hoth’s son. But for what it’s worth, I promise I’m only interested in _you_ , Zev.”

He smiled, drunk, relieved, believing her, flush warming his cheeks.

“Nice to see you two have become friends.” Bertolt placed on the table a plate of sandwiches, three tumblers and a bottle of colourless liquid, small, stocky and shaped like a grenade shell. “I, for one, just discovered this bar has real tihaar!”

“Oh, my.” Again that actress eyeroll.

“Help yourself, _ad’ika_.”

“Thank you.” The restroom stall where Zev had nearly hanged himself was a million parsecs away. So was the night outside, and the Press Corps using him to launch a purge against the last free journalists of Kuat City. The bread was warm where it had been lightly toasted, the vegetables crunchy, the meat and sauces sweeter than his mother’s embrace in the happy dreams he sometimes still had. He didn’t want yet to leave a galaxy where sandwiches existed and sentients could be kind. He should remember to thank the Mazepas, too, and visit Loire another time.

Bertolt filled a tumbler and pushed it towards Zev. “Try this.”

“Carefully,” Jeskeith interjected.

They started bickering and joking between each other. Zev put down a half-eaten sandwich, picked up the small glass and poured its content down his gorge. He dropped the glass and doubled over, coughing what felt like herbal-flavoured plasma jets.

“I told you to be careful.”

Zev stuck out his tongue and fanned it. When his mouth stopped feeling like it had been Base-Delta-Zeroed by a Super Star Destroyer, he groped for the glass, unbroken in the fall, and gestured at Bertolt for a refill.

“Are you sure?”

“Never been surer,” he rasped through the alcohol scorching his throat.

The second round of tihaar burned a little less. He couldn’t speak afterwards, so he just grinned and waved the tumbler for a third.

Bertolt and Jeskeith were smiling back. A warm shower of joy rushed over him. They were good people; they must be Rebel sympathisers too. He wanted to tell them everything, talk until sunrise. “Come on, come on, mate, another one!” he slurred. Jeskeith’s fleshy, kissable lips moved, the sounds reached his ears but failed to become coherent Basic. Had the music volume been raised all of a sudden?  “Sorry, what?” Zev leaned down and slammed his hand—the one that wasn’t holding up the tumbler to the tihaar bottle—on the table to prop himself up.

“You—should come—to dinner—at my parents’ house,” Jeskeith spelled out.

“Affirmative! I’m always down for ruining honest family dinners. I’m the reason why my father and my grandparents don’t invite each other anymore!”

She gave him a nervous smile. Stars, he wanted to cup her neck between his hands, nibble at her lips and glide his tongue down to the cleft between her tits. Maybe if he asked… He found his tumbler was full again. The tihaar didn’t burn anymore. Blue soft light spun before his eyes and filled his vision; his cheek came to rest on the sleek surface of the table. Sandwich crumbles stuck to his face, but he couldn’t lift himself. Didn’t want to. When big hands pressed on his shoulders, he rumbled in a wordless protest. _Fuck off, dad, don’t ever fucking touch me, let me sleep just another minute_.

He was in his old bed at home, hugging his toy stuffed bantha to his chest. He wasn’t a grown-up who held another naked, female grown-up close anymore, and good riddance to that. He relaxed into the dream, floating deeper and deeper as if the blanket cocoon—the smell of the blueblossom flowers mom always mixed in the laundry—were a bottomless zero-g void or the sea underwater.

Eventually, utter blackness overwhelmed everything.

The headache awoke him. Pulsing, throbbing headache, and sunlight. Like the dorm on Prefsbelt and his shipboard quarters, the light fell at the wrong angle to give him any transitory delusion of being home.

Zev pulled himself up into a shaky sitting position, out of a blanket that smelled like sour yeast; whatever laundry soap Petra Mazepa used, it was not aimed at pleasing the Human sense of smell. His body was covered in sweat, his bladder was full, and he was stripped to his underclothes but didn’t remember undressing. His throat was parched; as he blinked his eyes into semi-functionality, he noticed a glass of water on the nightstand and gulped it down. So good… He moaned at the sheer joy of quenched thirst. That happy noise brought quick footsteps across the corridor and the creak of the door opening. A pale blue face peeked in. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Zev cleared his throat. “Hello, Petra.”

She walked in with a smile on her face and a steaming cup in her hand. “How lucky you woke up now; I have just made some tea. Drink it, it’s good for your health. Would you like a dash of blue milk?”

“No, no, thanks. Actually, I need to use the bathroom—”

“Oh, Silas is in it at the moment. You can use this.” With a slipper-clad foot, she nudged a tin basin on the floor.

“…Thanks. I—I think I’ll wait.” He took the mug. It smelled Human-drinkable, and blissfully alcohol-free. “How did I even come back home last night?”

“My, you were out cold, poor baby! Don’t you know Mandalorian tihaar is too much for lanky boys like you? Lucky you, this charming tall officer brought you here. He was so kind and patient; he carried you to your room, undressed you and tucked you in. It warmed my heart to watch it! Young beings these days aren’t so caring anymore.”

“Was that a Mandalorian fellow, named Bertolt Kal… Kol… something like that?” As long as he kept Petra talking about Bertolt, she wouldn’t mention the HoloNet News.

“He just said he’s a friend of yours.” Petra tugged at the tips of her lethorns, gazing dreamily at the sunlit window. “He looked so much like a clone trooper; all my friends and I had a mighty crush on them during the Wars! But of course he’d be too young to be a real clone trooper, so I suppose he just belongs to the same Human strain as their template. Is he your boyfriend?”


	18. Chapter 18

“Mr Veers,” the delivery boy asked while Veers counted credit chips in his palm, “are you in the army?”

Veers stopped counting and thrust all the creds onto the boy’s hands. “Thanks, and keep the change.” He snatched the bag of food off the floor and shut the door, cutting off the boy’s embarrassed stammer of ‘thank you for choosing Galaxy Kitchen’.

The HoloNet’s film programme after the news kept him company while he ate his dinner. The food had stayed steaming hot in the boxes, and he’d been on one too many battlefields for warm food to not be an effective plug for the gaping void in his heart. He’d lost friends and brave soldiers, seen and done awful things, but at least there would be warm chow for him.

The holoflick was a remake of a Mandalorian Wars adventure he’d watched with Eliana half a lifetime ago; the old one was better, not just because of Eli’s fingers stroking the inside of his thigh in the dark theatre. He lowered the HoloNet viewer’s audio volume, so that he could hear any footfalls outside the front door. The heroines fell in love and went to war, starships exploded, power-hungry Jedi Knights manipulated honest senators and valiant Republic Navy officers for their dark purposes, the heroines made love that faded to black before the scene got saucy. All in a hush.

_Damn it, Firmus. Since when do you have a social life?_

He got invested in the plot, sympathising with the plight of the brave Mandalorian pilot who feared her girlfriend had become a traitor on the Republic’s payroll. The starfleets had just popped out of hyperspace over Malachor V, when the long-awaited sound of footsteps roused him off the couch. He switched the viewer off, grabbed the tube with the rolled up drawing inside, and dashed to the door. His hand hesitated on the lock. He froze when he heard Piett mutter a curse.

All of a sudden, the holoflick heroine choking back tears before donning her helmet for the final mission was a very relatable character. The significant difference was that, unlike her, Veers was too bloody afraid to act.

He shook his head, mentally calling himself the sentimental berk he was, and opened the door to find the landing empty, the door to Piett’s apartment already closed.

Not daring to move past the threshold, he whispered, “Firmus?”

No reply came. The door remained shut, no matter for how many long seconds Veers stared at it like his pathetic feelings had any gravitational pull on Piett. Sure, ringing him himself would be the logical course of action, but it stung that Piett had not come to seek him first. Sod it all, they could make peace tomorrow.

Veers closed the door, put the tube away, flung himself to lie down on the couch and returned to the holodrama. He turned it on just in time to watch the Jedi destroy Malachor V and both heroines assume the other had perished in the battle. A lump formed in his own throat as he watched the brave pilot sob over her lost love. Even the happy end failed to cheer him up.

Lacking any work to bury himself in, Veers shut off the viewer before any further news broadcast showed up, threw away the remains of his dinner, and cleaned himself up in the bathroom. He almost punched his own face in the mirror, but held himself in check and the only victim was the toothbrush that snapped in his clenched fist. Attempting to talk to Piett again was out of the question; he retreated to bed.

His sleep was dreamless, ended by the buzz of his comlink. No matter his mood and fatigue, his brain always responded to that stimulus; he couldn’t afford to ignore an emergency.

An early morning glow, pale but already warm, filled the bedroom through the window curtains.

The caller was Tantor. “Just checking in to make sure you’re all right, sir. Are you? I watched the—”

“—HoloNet News last night, yes.” In nothing but his pants and shirt, Veers shuffled to the kitchenette and made himself a caf at the Nutrimatic. It was the same model as the one in the admiral’s quarters on the _Executor_. “You and the rest of the galaxy.”

“Indeed. Well, Kijé did keep it simple and sober.”

“Yes, she did.” Veers wasn’t counting on the rest of the propaganda machine to stick to simplicity and sobriety.

“How has your son taken it?”

Veers watched the caf drip into the cup. Over the comm he could hear the din of a holocartoon theme, one he recognised from Zev’s childhood. The shrill voice of a kid was singing along while a grown-up feminine voice urged, “Kasih, this is your final warning: drink your blue milk now!”

The noise grew fainter. Tantor must have moved to a quieter spot. “Sorry about the noise. My daughter’s breakfast time is a pitched battle.”

“It’s fine.” Veers pulled the full cup from the Nutrimatic. It was very hot on his palm and fingers, but he tested himself to resist dropping the cup. “I didn’t make contact with my son, nor did he with me. That’s for the best.”

“Are you certain?”

“No. Just uneasy.” He put down the cup on the countertop, his skin couldn’t bear the heat anymore.

Tantor started to say something, but his wife’s voice called his name, pleading and exasperated. It reminded Veers of his own mother more so than of Eliana.

“Okay, okay, I’m on my way!” answered Tantor, and Veers pictured the pleasure and the irritation mixing on his face. “I’m sorry, sir, I have to—”

“Don’t worry about me. Thanks for comming.”

“Give me a buzz if you need to talk. Have a good day, sir.”

“You and your family too.” _Click_.

He drank up his caf unsugared and hot, trying and failing to ignore the suffocating sensation of being under siege. Or being a hunted man. It must be hard on the Rebels’ nerves, living with this feeling all the time and for more serious reasons than a HoloNet News story.

Burn pain lingered on the palm of his right hand; he stared at the reddened skin and the old scars while water gushed in the sink, showering the empty caf cup. “This is bad,” he told himself aloud like he was pointing out a mechanical problem in an AT-AT. Then he willed his hand to stay palm-up under the running fresh water for a few minutes. The burn faded.

He sighed and leaned on the edge of the sink. The hollowness inside him accepted only caf in his stomach; maybe booze too, and for this reason Veers had never allowed himself much drinking. It was the same hollowness as the wistful pangs on his first day aboard a frontline-bound starship, during the Clone Wars. It was also the dark, sullen mood hanging over his last few home leaves on Denon, after Eliana’s death.

Blast, he was too old to brave that heartache alone. Tantor had gotten in touch out of politeness, but he was busy with his own family and Veers didn’t want to think about happy families now, let alone overhear them.

There was only one person who could help.

He shaved his stubble, remade his bed and got into his trousers and boots, taking care to forget the tunic, and retrieved the gift in its tube. To reach Piett’s apartment, he came through the terrace; the morning air was a perfect balance of leftover night chill and the warmth of sunlight, and that basic dirtside comfort boosted Veers’ confidence. He was so glad to be away from space.

The big double-paned door that led into the living room had its duraglass set to opaque. Leaning close and squinting, though, Veers could see a dark outline move in the room. He knocked loud and clear on the pane, then stood with his hands behind his back, pushing his chest out and not bothering to smooth down his skin-tight shirt where it had rolled up on his abdomen.

It didn’t take long for the door to crack open and Piett to peek out, his face unreadable. “Good morning, General.”

Veers almost tilted his head down to kiss him, but surrender was a ritual and he had to play along with it. “Such a nice day, isn’t it, Admiral? I’m sure you agree. Else you wouldn’t be awake at this early hour.”

“I am awake because you knocked. And it _is_ early, if you get what I mean.”

“Don’t give me the passive-aggressive banthacrap, Firmus. You were already up. I can tell by your hair, you know? It’s too well combed to be your bed hair.”

Piett’s eyes narrowed a little. He opened the door a few centimetres wider and stepped away. “Are you trying to catch a cold? Come in.”

Veers strode through and slid the door shut behind him. There they were, along together. It had been so simple and fast it felt like a scam. There was none of the racing-hearted, dizzying delight Veers usually felt after navigating the _Executor_ ’s corridor to the admiral’s quarters unnoticed.

Piett was in his uniform trousers and a robe that looked too heavy and woollen for this climate. He sat on the couch and plucked a cigarette and the lighter from a pack on the table. “What is it that you’re making such a poor attempt at hiding?”

“A present.” Veers bit back the disappointment at seeing Piett light the smoke—cigarettes were for after sex, not before or during; Piett was adamant about that rule and Veers guessed it was best not to ask whether there was more to that than respect for safety norms—and handed him the tube as he sat at the other end of the couch. “Happy birthday, Firmus.”

“My birthday is in two standard months.” The cigarette dangling from his lips, Piett opened the tube and slid the rolled up flimsi out of it. He spread it out and stared at it. Veers grinned, but his heart skipped a beat when Piett cocked an eyebrow. _What the fuck, Max,_ he chided himself _. What are you, an insecure teenager again?_

Still scrutinising his caricatured self in the drawing—a physically faithful rendition of the admiral giving the military salute to a torpedo-sized bottle of Ithorian rum—Piett reached for the ashtray and blindly flicked the spent end of his cigarette into it.

“If you don’t like it, you can throw it away,” Veers hurried to say, like he didn’t mind. “I know it’s silly but I thought it represented you well, at least to me. It’s more accurate than your awful portraits in the Navy databank, because this thing here is a part of you I know and the Navy doesn’t, if that makes any sense. It’s… like when we make lo—when we shag. Like something of yours we share and only I can have.”

Piett stiffened a bit.

“Hutt’s balls, that came across as creepy, didn’t it?” Veers wanted to slap himself. “Anyway, I got it from a street artist. It’s nothing precious—”

“I like it.” Piett put the flimsi down on the table and shifted into a more comfortable and more spread-legged position to peer at Veers through a thin smoke cloud. “Your sense of humour is… on point, I must admit. But the cleanness surprises me.”

Veers smiled anew, his face hot like sunlight had touched it. “Does it disappoint you?” He made a quiet sigh of relief when Piett laughed.

“If you turning into a clean-minded good boy is what happens when we have an argument, we really should avoid having them again. Don’t you agree?”

Veers shuffled over to lay an arm over his shoulders and stroke his hair. “Hurry up with that blasted cigarette.”

Piett took a long drag and blew the smoke out his nostrils. “How are you, by the way?”

The vagueness of the question put Veers at ease. “Not well. Fuck, yesterday was a nightmare. Have you watched the HoloNet News?”

“No.”

“My son and I are all over it.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

The puff of smoke Piett exhaled sounded like a sigh. He stubbed out the fag in the ashtray, and Veers felt hopeful, then pathetic for being hopeful. Hopeful about what, anyway?

“Sorry I made matters worse for you,” said Piett quietly, nestling against Veers’ chest.

Veers wanted to ask him, to beg him, not to do it again. How unfair and stupid would that be? He was fortunate Piett still wanted him at all. “My fault for getting you involved.” Stars, that sounded like a jab at Piett’s flippant refusal to spare any emotional support. He braced himself for the insensitive little bastard to snap at him, but in the long silent seconds that passed Piett did nothing but sit in his embrace and caress slow circles on his thigh.

“Is this wool?” Veers broke the silence before it turned into something awkward. “Real wool?” He slid his hands into the v-shaped neck of Piett’s robe. All the way down to the belt knot.

“This planet is so cold at night!”

That accusing tone made Veers laugh. “It’s not! You and cold climates, I swear… How do you even survive in space, sailor?” He toyed with one end of the belt and pulled it; the knot came undone. “When I’m not there to warm your bed, that is.”

“I held on for quite a long time before you and I—well.” He took Veers’ hesitant hand and buried it in the hot interstice between the woollen garment and his thin synthcotton shirt. “I’m glad to have you now, dear.”

Veers bent his legs under his arse, ignoring how uncomfortable that position was with his boots on. He peppered kisses over Piett’s forehead, a diversionary tactic while his hands led the main attack at the other man’s knees. Piett let himself be gently pushed flat face-up on the couch; his left leg vaulted over Veers’ lap and wrapped around his waist.

Just a light inviting push of it, and Veers lay down over Piett, careful not to crush him and not to slip off the couch. Piett’s tongue brought the burned taste of cigarette inside his mouth; he had never liked cigarettes, and if he thought of it as a punishment it contributed puzzlingly to the hard-on growing in his pants.

Piett tugged his shirt up on his back; greedy fingers tickled his spine and dug into his buttocks. He felt Piett make a rumbling noise into his mouth, a sigh perhaps. They both gasped when their mouths parted.

“It’s getting hot,” Piett said conversationally. Flush was spreading on his face and the morning light all around was turning a brighter and fuller gold. “Would… would you mind?” He rolled a shoulder, trying to crawl out of the robe.

“As if I’d ever mind undressing you, sailor.” Veers pulled the sleeve off his arm, kissed his shoulder through the shirt, then took care of the other sleeve. He paused to gaze down at the admiral stripped to his white shirt, peaked nipples underneath, chest rising and falling sharply at every silenced breath. The half-lidded look he shot Veers spoke volumes of challenge.

He knew what Piett was expecting: that he go for another mouth kiss, or for his throat. Veers chose the unexpected attack vector instead and groped Piett’s swollen crotch.

Piett hissed and arched his neck. He began panting while Veers unzipped his trousers and palmed the erection, rubbing it up and down until wetness seeped through the pants fabric.

“You want me, Firmus, don’t you?” Teasing, Veers hooked a finger on the pants waistband and pulled it to just above the mound of Piett’s cock, which he grabbed still clothed. He thumbed the wet tip, pushing into the slit under his fingerpad. That tore a moan out of Piett.

With his free hand, Veers wiped drool off the corner of his grinning face. He pressed that palm to Piett’s lower belly, let some of his weight fall there until Piett winced under it, and pushed the front of Piett’s shirt up all the way to his breastbone.

He took in the sight, and froze.

Piett interpreted the sudden motionlessness as a cue to whip off his shirt, and lay back with his upper body completely bare. Including the few hickeys that had remained hidden on his sternum. After a few moments of smirking and deep breathing in wait, he cracked his eyes open. “Who told you to stop?”

“I didn’t make these.”

“What—” Piett followed Veers’ stare. “Ah.”

Veers let go of the ventral cannon charging in his fist and fell back to sit at the far end of the couch; the springs groaned at the impact. His heart was pounding so hard he thought he might spit it out any moment. His head spun, and the divide between arousal and nausea was blurring. He wanted to ask questions, to roar and get angry. He grit his teeth and looked Piett in the eyes.

The admiral had already regained his cool. It was infuriating. Piett sat up, his legs open at an awkward angle to make room for the hard-on. “It’s not what you think, Max.”

“So you know what I’m thinking?” Veers snarled. “Amazing. You developed mind-reading abilities by working with Lord Vader?”

“I will tell you what happened. An old colleague invited me for dinner—”

“And you made out.”

“He invited me to a brothel afterwards. It would have been impolite to refuse.”

Veers’ jaw unclenched and dropped.

“The whore I was with made these.” Piett ran a hand on the bruises constellating his chest. Veers could easily trace the direction the kisses and suction had gone, down the cleft of the sternum and concentrating around the nipples—Veers tore his face away. He felt dizzy and filthy and angry.

Piett huffed. “Bright as a binary droid, aren’t we? Max, it was just some whore in an A.F.A.R. house.”

A.F.A.R. house… Corellia, the military brothel in Kolene, two drunk Navy officers, the Mirialan prostitute, himself begging Moff Juno to pull bureaucratic strings for a transfer to some war zone where he could die for good. A week after that night, Kolene rose in armed revolt and he forgot to stand in a blaster shot’s way. Fucking forgot to. And Corellia had hammered home the point it hated him as much as he hated Corellia.

Veers held his breath and sealed his mouth shut with a hand. He didn’t know if he wanted to cry or vomit; either way, he wasn’t going to show that weakness now.

“He meant nothing to me,” Piett kept trying. “Actually, I picked that lad because he bore a vague resemblance to you.”

Veers punched the cushion between them. The springs groaned louder and the coach shook. Piett fell silent.

“So that’s all I’m worth to you?” He was screaming and didn’t fucking care. “Just as good as a whore?”

Piett frowned but didn’t speak.

“Is _this_ what you mean with that poodoo about warming your bed?”

“I was thinking of you all along. Pretending that lad was you. In other words, I wanted you all along. You, Max. Shagging a prostitute is about the same as boxing the Bendu monk.”

“Do you fucking hear yourself? I—I can’t believe how shameless and heartless you are.” While Piett rolled his eyes, Veers stomped to his feet and pulled down his shirt. “Is this an Axxilan custom? Is it the shithole you grew up in that made you like this?”

Not even that missile appeared to hit the target. Maybe it did, but Veers couldn’t bear to look at Piett, half naked and full of hickeys, long enough to notice the subtle changes of expression that signalled the admiral was getting riled up.

“Well, Firmus, in case you didn’t notice, the civilised galaxy doesn’t work like that and cheating on your partner is not the same as—”

“Shut yer blasted trap.”

Piett reverting to his native accent sent a chill down Veers’ spine, but he put a smug smiling front to it. “What’s that? Have I poked a sore spot?”

“You have.”

“I’m so sorry, _Firrrrmus_ ,” he exaggerated the Core accent, “but you had it coming.”

“Do not provoke me any further, General.”

“So scary. And I mean, what is scary is the lengths you’ll go to in order to shift the blame from yourself, surely not your piss-poor attempt at a tough face.”

In a slow and far too controlled motion, Piett rose to his feet, zipped up his trousers, collected his shirt off the floor and put it back on. He barely broke eye contact with Veers. Damn, was he going to attack? _Shit, shit, shit_. How had they gotten to this point? Veers wished he could go back in time to a few minutes ago and bite off his own tongue.

“For the last time,” Piett threatened, eerily calm, “I did not cheat on you. Forget about apologies, if they’re what you expect; I refuse to feed your absurd jealousy.”

“Absurd jealousy... Look who’s damn talking!” Veers scrambled to his feet, legs tingling from the uncomfortable kneeling position, and towered in front of Piett. His forefinger took aim at that impassable face. “ _You_ are the one who gets cranky if I so much as mention my wife or, the Force forbid, the fact that yes, that loss still hurts like the nine hells. You would shove me out an airlock if I did the same thing you did last night, and yet _I_ am the only one who must meet the standards of fidelity and patience? Hutt’s bollocks!”

Not even that was enough to crack Piett’s façade. If it _was_ a façade at all. The longer Piett remained calm, the more Veers wanted to stay angry. “Did a tooka eat your tongue?” he urged him.

Piett crossed his arms. He seemed bored now. “Here’s a valuable life lesson from the uncivilised galaxy, dear: getting someone to kiss your pain better until it goes away doesn’t work. Frankly, it gives me the hives that you harboured such a delusion towards me, of all people.”

Veers staggered one step backwards, his calf hitting the hard edge of the table. He sucked in breath against the sharp pain and blinked as his eyes watered.

“Oh, come on now, General, don’t be childish!”

At that snappy note, Veers responded automatically by wiping his eyes and pulling his shoulders back, ready for attention. He realised an instant too late how bloody stupid that was, but had no idea how else to carry himself, like some easily confounded Imperial butt-of-the-joke in a Rebel propaganda holovid.

“We must not allow this sentimental balderdash, do you understand? It can and will cause us bigger problems yet than that deplorable incident with Lieutenant-Commander Ardan. Max, I cannot allow myself to have you as my weakness.”

“Firmus, are you a Jedi or something? I swear this no-attachment shit sounds straight out of that Old Republic holodrama I was watching last night—”

“Look at yourself, and please look hard. You haven’t gotten over your wife, and your son—”

“Shut up. Shut up. Just… don’t speak another word. Alright?”

They glared at each other. Piett was livid, and that was it; no outer indication of anything other than anger. As for Veers, he was trembling and his head was swimming, while his calf pulsed with ache in his boot.

“So I’m used merchandise to you, eh?”

Piett tilted his head.

“Used and damaged.”

“Self-loathing is not the way to win my sympathies, General. Or anyone else’s.”

Thanks so damn much, but he already knew that; Zev had made it crystal-clear. “I was stating a fact. Foolish of me to attach so much importance to a bit of tenderness and intimacy, I guess. What’s next that I should know? You faked it every time?”

“I’m not saying it’s not been enjoyable. But if I had known I would have had to put up with…” He waved a hand. “…with you getting demanding and maudlin, I would have called it a night after the first round of grog. It would have been in our own best interest.”

Between a mounting migraine and the leg pain, Veers wanted to sit down. He eyed the couch and started towards it, but caught himself. “ _Demanding_ , huh.” He was sure Piett noticed his distress, and it added insult to the injury that he didn’t ask him to sit.

“Yes.”

“I honestly don’t see how. Care to explain?”

Piett narrowed his eyes, was silent for some seconds, sighed, and reached down for the cigarette pack. “Why bother? You wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand what? How damaged you are? How thoroughly your homeworld, the academy, your work and whatever the hell you’ve seen has fucked you up?”

The lighter snapped and clicked. Piett took a long drag and kept it in his lungs long enough it made Veers sick on his behalf before he snorted it out his nose. “Well, yes, I am sorry my life wasn’t as happy and full of love and security as yours, General. Sorrier than you, I daresay. I also am sorry it’s made me… not someone you like very much anymore, I suppose?”

“Firmus, that’s not the point, and for fuck’s sake, stop shifting the blame! So you think having lived a shitty life gives you a free pass to be a nasty little cunt, or what? You shouldn’t have bothered arresting smugglers and slavers in your home system, then; surely they came from bad places, too!”

Piett pinched the cigarette between his fingers and flicked the ash into the ashtray. Something about the fact he was still standing, and the unceremonious automation of the gesture, struck Veers as a sign of lost hope; he could and would be flicked away the same as that cigarette ash. “Just as predicted, you don’t understand.” Piett sounded tired. “Then again, I lay no claim to understand your pain as widower and father.”

“You didn’t bother trying. There’s a difference.”

The stare Piett fixed on him changed; eyes a little wider, a little more helpless. Veers cheered that first small score and pressed on, “Honesty time, Firmus. Have you ever been in a relationship before?”

“We aren’t—” Piett clamped his mouth shut.

Veers couldn’t help a flinch. So he had been deluding himself, after all. Shaking his head, he watched Piett like some poor sod on a sinking starship would the last escape pod launch without him.

“I couldn’t afford to be romantic. I could afford prostitutes when I started earning the Emperor’s shilling, and that was enough for me.”

“Good stars, Firmus.”

“Listen, I had a best friend at the academy, another cadet in my class; the top-scoring lad in it, in fact, and I came second. I guess we were a bit in love, too, and sometimes after lights-out I’d tiptoe in his bunk or he in mine. We helped each other with tasks and had a mutual support agreement if one of us got beaten up or walked out of the restrooms with a bad limp, if you catch my drift.”

Veers nodded. His worried thoughts raced to Zev at the academy. _Stop it. Prefsbelt is a better place than that._ True, but so much of this stuff went unreported… _Stop it. It’s too late for worrying anyway_. And that was the worst thing.

“It happened once or twice.” Piett did not specify to whom. “But we were doing well, all in all. Then, a few weeks before graduation, my friend stole a loaded blaster from the armoury and shot himself. And that was how I graduated top of my class.”

“Awful.”

Piett gave him a humourless smile while smoke swirled out from the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”

“Not you. The whole thing.”

“It’s the way it is.”

“And you just let it turn _you_ awful?”

“Oh, what in blazes is this naivety all of a sudden? It doesn’t look cute on you, General.”

Between the entire damned conversation and the tobacco smell, Veers now had acquired a deflated erection and a mighty headache. He wanted to sit and his eyes were drawn to the sofa. “I should be going,” he murmured.

Piett made a scoffing noise. “This is what you get for prying.”

“Firmus, it’s not what you just…” Dizziness washed over Veers. He rubbed his temples hard and took breaths as deep and even as he could.

“Max,” Piett’s voice was flat with threat again, “don’t you dare cry. You flew into this asteroid field all by yourself, you berk.”

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” Veers said through gritted teeth and a wave of nausea. The caf in his stomach burbled like xenoboric acid corroding a thorilide crystal. “But—”

“ _But_ you think I am treating you somewhat unfairly, and I have no right to do that, and so on so forth. Quit moralising and face the truth like the war hero you are, General: your sweetheart is dead and I am not a spare part that fits. Do you understand? There is no way in the nine hells I ever could return your… feelings.”

“That night after Hoth… You said you—”

“I was pissed and talking poodoo, I told you already.”

Veers peeked over his hand. The surroundings took a few moments to come into focus. The cigarette had disappeared into the ashtray but a haze of smoke hovered around Piett, noxious and defensive.

“Of course. I shouldn’t have brought that up at all. A drunken sailor’s words, of course.”

“Now that we have cleared things up, we can carry on from where we stopped.” Piett toyed with the front of his trousers. He was smiling like he’d just blasted a Rebel ship to stardust. “If you want.” He lowered his eyes to Veers’ groin. Shameless. Heartless.

“Firmus, do you even _want_ me to forgive you?”

“I don’t need anyone’s forgiveness.” Piett added in a snarl, “And I’m not granting any to the galaxy.”

“Nice. Save that attitude for Lord Vader the day he’s in a foul mood.” Veers tromped to the terrace door.

“You forgot your cap in my bedroom,” Piett called to him a bit too urgently.

Veers yanked the door open, stepped outside and slammed it shut.

The inner courtyard of the complex was bathed in golden light; windowpanes and terrace plants shone, everything too bright and too festive and wounding to his eyes. He kicked a potted plant on his way back to his side of the terrace; the bottom of his foot screamed at each subsequent step and he was going to track earth all the way inside his flat, but fuck if he cared.

Before crossing the threshold, Veers glowered up to the clear sky, the orbital ring crossing it like a gossamer rainbow, and the chunky shape of a Star Destroyer descending into atmosphere. Veers let out a low growl. _Bugger off, intruder. Stay in the vac where you belong_.

He stomped over to his bed, tidied up like he’d been used to doing since academy days. He yanked down the coverlet and flung himself into a dark cocoon of fabric that smelled of his own body and fading laundry. A lousy smell. He breathed it in deep, even, sickening lungfuls to placate the windstorm in his chest.

Blast, he hated sleeping alone.


	19. Chapter 19

“You forgot your cap in my bedroom.” Sweet stars, there wasn’t one word in that phrase Piett didn’t want to bite his tongue off for. And the tone, Huttfucking hells. A plea through and through.

The worst thing was that humiliating himself, lending a voice to defeat and the need for affection, was useless: Veers stormed out onto the terrace without a look back, slamming the door behind him. Piett could still see him for a few moments, a big dark bulk moving on the other end of the opaque pane. Then that ghost disappeared.

Piett sagged on the sofa and pressed his face to the armrest. The fabric was cool and silky, with the very consistency of expensiveness; he shouldn’t cry on it. After a few muffled sobs and several shaky breaths, the crisis passed. He was calm. Just a little cold, hence the persistent tremor in his body.

Not looking at his bare arms where he could feel the hair standing, he sat up, picked up the robe, smoothed out the creases on the wool, and put the garment back on. As soon as it warmed up, he would stop shaking.

He stared at the Jamel Filters pack on the table, pulled out a cig and lit it up. Small, controllable gestures. Regular breathing. The smoke billowed into his mouth, its scent covering what scant traces his tongue had retained of Veers’ taste.

His hands lay limp in his lap; his palms bore small red indentations from when his fists had clenched and his nails had dug in. This never happened as long as one wore Navy-issue gloves, but when that protection was removed it became plain what a bad habit it was. Just like this whole disgraceful affair with Veers. It was best for both of them to end it here.

He exhaled too hard and spat out the cigarette. He managed to catch it before it fell and without burning his fingers. He placed it on top of the ashtray and clamped his hands over his stupid face. Fuck the regular breaths, his heart was an overloaded core reactor about to melt down.

An awful whimper wheezed out of his throat. “What have I done?”

It was mortifying to word out that ridiculous misplaced guilt, but at least it had a sliver more of dignity than the wordless whimper.

He pulled his hands down his face and peeked at the cigarette. Half of it had crumbled to ashes. He finished the rest in quick, angry puffs, blowing off in the smoke everything that burned and clawed and screamed inside him. Then he went to search his documents bag.

The flask was easy to grope for, its old nerf leather casing jagged with decade-old scratches. The liquid inside was no less old, but still potable; there had been times, when Piett had cracked the flask open after the worst workdays under Admiral Ozzel, he’d hoped the Port would turn toxic and put him out of his misery.

Piett opened the cap and sniffed into the neck of the bottle. The Pamarthean Port-in-a-Storm slapped him like a wind gust; the tang of spices was so strong that Piett’s eyes watered. He remembered buying the spices at a market in Little Sundari. The vendor said they were best for pouring into tea or tihaar.

Well, Port-in-a-Storm was stronger than tihaar. It was wise to never say so to the Mandalorians, however; they held a centuries-long grudge against Pamartheans for that claim, as Piett had learnt when trying to stop a cantina brawl before the death toll got too high.

He went to the kitchenette, made himself a strong caf at the Nutrimatic, and poured a spoonful of fixed-up Port into the cup.

Leaning against the countertop and gazing at the slice of clear sky outside the window, he drank the swill in slow sips, allowing the scorching hot caf, the spices and the alcohol to burn every centimetre on their way down.

What had he done? What had he just done? Double sip. A gag reflex mounted, then relaxed.

 _Max, you berk. Sentimental old berk. Kriffing poodoo-filled son of a twat-rotten Huttfucking whore_. Sip, slower, his hand trembling. He should mind his manners. The whores of Axxila were too good for Veers to bear even a metaphorical linkage to them; it was offensive to their dignity.

Of course Veers himself wasn’t a whore. It would have simplified things so much if he were. But oh no, that nerf-brained sod was the kind of man who would kneel, offer a ring and propose for his beloved to marry him at the end of the war. Fucking unbelievable. Sip, over the lump in his throat. Sip.

It was his fault for giving Veers false hopes, too. That night after Hoth. _I love you_. Piett gripped the cup and held back the impulse to hurl it to the floor. Instead, sip. For several seconds he couldn’t swallow the stuff. The heat and spiciness in his mouth grew more and more intolerable until he forced it down. The effort left him nauseous, breathless, with pins and needles stabbing his tongue.

He turned around and placed both hands on the countertop, the cup clattering on the stone surface. “I’m sorry,” he groaned. His voice startled him and he looked over his shoulder. Empty, clean, well-lit quarters, as usual. What if Veers could hear him through the wall, though? The kitchenette here must be on the opposite side of the wall to the bedroom in Veers’ flat. Well, why should he assume Veers was in the bedroom now? He had no one to share the bed with. “That serves you right!”

Piett retreated from the countertop, holding on to its edge to keep his balance. He waited. No answer rumbled across the wall.

The wait allowed guilt to worm its way into his mind. A lover shouldn’t do these things. In a slow and absurdly furtive motion, he picked up the caf cup and took another sip. It tasted of Axxila. Had his father behaved like this to his mother? Had they ever been in love before they split up?

He gripped the cup to throw it into the sink, but a deep-seated instinct not to waste food and drink made him guzzle up the remaining caf first. His vision blackened and he heard the empty cup rattle, the noise echoing from a distance far greater than the centimetres between him and the sink.

“Come back here, please.”

Least of all came a response to _this_. The silence gave him the measure of how weak and vulnerable he was, like a pebble ejected into the interstellar void. On this alien soil, there was none of the perennial, all-encompassing low hum of the Lady Ex’s engines to offer solace. He had lost Veers. Given him up. Had not tried hard enough to own him, or tried too hard. Would it have hurt like this if Veers had been killed in action? Less so. It wouldn’t have been his own fault, in that case. He wouldn’t have been forced to feel sorry.

Well, that was what being sorry brought you. _Apologies accepted, Captain Needa; enjoy the view of whatever afterlife you believed in_. Being sorry and in love… Stars, he might just jump into the beak of a sarlacc.

Piett gathered himself to a more stable standing position, his eyesight clearing one blink at a time. He located the flask, tossed his head back and poured the liquid fire down his gorge. Next thing he knew, he was bending over the countertop, the top of his skull touching the wall. When he was able to stand unanchored again, a haze dampened the outside universe and his own thoughts. Good.

He stumbled back to the living room. A faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. The flimsi lay rolled up on the table, not far from the ashtray. Piett consigned the sheet to a drawer; he didn’t have the guts to bin it now. He turned to stare at the door. The landing could be crossed in three paces, and there was no CCTV—

“No. Sod it all.”

Stars, why were he and Veers having an argument in such an easy and free place, where the logistics of meeting were so untroubled?

“Your loss entirely, General!”

The thought struck him: what if Veers could hear him? What if he came ringing at the front door or banging at the terrace door?

Piett had the impulse to crouch and make himself smaller than he already was, like that time a Mandalorian in full armour paused beating up the blood-caked Devaronian she was working over in a trash-filled alley and strode over to him, a kid saddled with a grocery bag walking home from the marketplace. “ _Tion meg borarat par, ad?_ ” That was a common part of the phrasebook in Little Sundari. _Who do you work for, son?_

“ _Me mum_.” A huge gauntleted hand had held him by the shoulder, a steel vice on bones he’d never noticed were so frail and never forgotten since then, the neck of his shirt constricting his throat like a taut rope.

Under the soft woollen lapel of the robe, Piett massaged that ancient sore spot that ached afresh. His mind had never before drawn parallels between that Mandalorian’s grip and Lord Vader’s, should His Lordship ever choose to strangle him with his own hands rather than his favourite telekinetic trick. The memory had been locked away well until now. It was accurate, however. Awfully accurate.

He felt sick with fear, his breathing getting shallow, head spinning, sweat popping out on his brow. He wished Veers were here and that his big strong arms, naked, covered in soft blond hair, were wrapped around him tight enough for support and gentle enough to not entrap.

Had he ever wished for Jivko to saunter back from the dead and embrace him, after Jivko had blown his brains out? He couldn’t remember. It wasn’t a fantasy Piett could indulge in, with an anti-pirate flotilla to kick into shape, smugglers and slavers to arrest, a rotten-to-the-core planet to rid of scum.

Was that cheating? If Jivko could see him, would he be angry at him? Piett had never even burned a gutter-crow feather in his honour during the festival of the eclipse; he’d accumulated too many more dead in the meantime, stormtroopers and fellow officers, to mourn in a single day.

By the will of the Force, Old Boonta, and the Axxilan thief-gods who weren’t done yet poking fun at his carcass, he limped to the sofa without tripping on his shuffling feet. He pulled the robe tight on his chest and tried lying down on his back. The cheerful morning light was a bother; he missed the _Executor_ ’s muted blues and greys, and how the day cycle lights were easy on the eyes. He curled up on his left side and mashed his face against the back cushion.

A T-shaped black visor materialised from the darkness and stared him down, so close he could smell the Mandalorian over the stink of garbage: ozone hint of blaster shots and the sickening reek of blood—Devaronian blood had a much sharper scent than Human blood. “ _Yer mom, eh?”_ The voice boomed through the helmet vocoder. Piett could already feel the chilly blade of a beskar dagger slice through his bowels. _“Who’s that? Niobe Kryze? Some Black Sun_ shabuir _? Verrua the Hutt sent ya to spy on me, eh?”_

Piett jerked up to sit. For a moment he was afraid to breathe. But the air only smelled of Jamel Filters smoke, more faded now than just minutes ago. No putrid garbage, no blaster fumes, no blood. That difference in smells calmed him more than the visual cue of the clean and safe Kuati apartment.

So much daylight flooded the room now that he couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to. That wasn’t bad—he had no desire to meet Jivko or that Mandalorian again in another nightmare—but he needed to keep himself busy somehow, lest he give in to overthinking and became tempted to ring at Veers’ door.

First off, another cigarette. While his body performed the automatic motions with the pack, the cig and the lighter, his thoughts didn’t stop; stars, he’d grown attached to Veers. Dependent on him like a junkie on a pleasure drug. Sure, he’d fancied prostitutes in his youth, and the Kiffar madam at his favourite knocking-shop had scaled the ranks until she classified as friend, but this… this was too much. Precarious, demanding. It couldn’t be healthy.

And whose fault was that? Veers’? Or his?

He took a drag and grunted as he exhaled the smoke. Then he stared out into the diaphanous grey swirls, seeing nothing.

Haidar. Had he gossiped to Veers about the whores on Axxila? Could that be a reason why Veers had thrown such a fit at finding out with whom Piett had spent the previous night? Coreworlders were bloody fussy in these matters. Piett knew Veers wasn’t that type and his upset had a different origin, but that was best brushed off for now. Well, Haidar was a distraction; lacking actual productive work to immerse himself in, Piett had to make do with what he had within reach.

He flicked ash off the cig and switched on the HoloNet terminal at the centre of the table. He couldn’t bloody believe what he was about to do. Well, he owed it to Attica. She had asked him to keep an eye on Haidar. He had given her his word.

Having an external pretext did help. Without further hesitation he signed in to his inbox, rolled his eyes at yet another message from Captain Needa’s husband at the top of the unread mail, felt his consideration of widowers sink even lower, and browsed the Navy personnel roster for _Sarkli, Haidar_. There were millions of people in the Navy contact roster an admiral with his clearances could access, and Haidar was unique; not even one partial duplicate name showed up in the search bar. Piett almost deleted Haidar’s name and searched his own, out of curiosity…

_Shirking your duty, Admiral?_

The chastising inner voice was too harsh and deep to be his own. Much closer to Lord Vader’s.

He tapped on Haidar’s name, then the ‘audio only’ call button.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Piett took in a deep, slow drag.

_Beep. Beep._

He flicked the ash off again. Could Haidar be too drunk or spiced to take the call? Piett couldn’t reconcile the Axxilan urchin he’d watched grow up, too fast and too crooked, with a conscientious officer working the night at a holoterminal.

 _Beep_ —“Cap’n Sarkli.” Loud and awake voice. The only slur was due to his accent. Then Haidar tossed that agreeable progress of civilisation out the airlock, “Oi, uncle Fir, ‘tis ye!”

Piett mashed the filter end of the cig between his teeth. “Yes.”

“How’s tricks?”

“Haidar,” he checked the cigarette and was relieved to see the paper had not torn, “this is not a work call but would you _mind_ not talking like we’re in the Outer Rim?”

Silence. “That didn’t sound very Outer Rim-y to me, honest.”

“I didn’t mean to snap, but—”

“Naw naw, it’s fine. I have to,” he spelled out the verb and the preposition apart, “get better at this whole _talk like a greyback_ deal. Heh, my job so far has been all about _not_ soundin’ or lookin’ like a greyback!”

“You need more practice. Which reminds me, what in blazes possessed you to tell General Veers,” Piett couldn’t help raising his voice, “of all people, that I practised to get rid of my accent?”

“Hmm, he wasn’t the only one around. There was him, his arsehole son Lieutenant Veers, an’ Lieutenant Kijé. She’s a dearie.”

“Well then, you made me look like a fool in front of not just one of my officers…” As realisation hit him, Piett nearly choked on the smoke. “Wait, you fancy her?”

“Eh…” The laughter lilt in Haidar’s voice was all the affirmative answer Piett needed and feared.

“I swear on Old Boonta’s bones, Haidar, if you stick one finger in her knickers—”

“What, what, what? Uncle, who’re you takin’ me for?” Haidar turned serious and very cold. “My pops, I reckon?”

Maybe he should use a polite lie. It would have worked with Veers better than the stark truth. Piett breathed in what was left of the cig and snuffed it. “I don’t care that it’s harsh; you’re a grown man and you can take harshness.”

Haidar muttered something that sounded Huttese.

“You haven’t given me much reason to stop seeing your father in you so far.”

Silence.

“What else did you tell Veers?” asked Piett.

“’Bout the whores.”

“He already knew about _that_.” Piett rubbed a hand over his chest. He hadn’t dared to take another look at the hickeys under his shirt. “Did you get into details?”

“Why would I? It’s fun to mess with prissy Coreworlders, but there are things ‘bout you even _I_ don’t know, uncle.” The transmission crackled for a split second. Haidar must have activated a scrambler. Piett smiled in approval; spying had drilled some caution into the lad. A bare minimum. It was never going to be enough, but better than none.

“Well, I mean,” Haidar went on nonchalantly, “I do know you had something of an alien kink, but that’s pretty broad an’ not at all uncommon, huh. Y’know who else has it? Veers’ bukee.”

“What fresh rubbish is this?”

“I’ve done some diggin’ in Lieutenant Zevulon Veers’ records. The ones he doesn’t know exist. Turns out he used to wank to Twi’lek holoporn when he was a cadet at Prefsbelt.”

Piett grimaced. Prefsbelt. Spoiled little son of a _schutta_. And the _schutta_ wasn’t Veers.

“Almost all vanilla female bondage. Easy to find on mainstream porn hubs. Not the real good stuff, ‘cos I guess wermos these days don’t know the first fuck about darknets.”

“It’s still forbidden material, though.”

“Aye.”

“Did the academy not take corrective action because they didn’t find out, or because they didn’t want to raise a poodoo storm?”

Haidar laughed. “Ye even ask?”

“Are _you_ trying to raise a poodoo storm now?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t play daft as a Gungan with me, Haidar. Why did you bother to check Lieutenant Veers’ secret records?”

“I don’t like him one bit. I wanted to find new reasons to not like him. Is all!”

“Bollocks.”

“Look, uncle, he was there at the spaceport when those Huttfuckers tried to defect an’ blew up a shuttle, an’ nearly blew up _me_ along wi’ them. He acts funny for a COMPNOR lad. Doesn’t take a strill’s nose to smell shite.”

“Aha.” Piett thought of Veers—Veers Senior of course. He did not possess a strill’s nose; he did share traits with the Mandalore-born beast, such as the killing proficiency and the parental instinct, but none of the nose. Probably had no idea his son wanked to Twi’lek porn, let alone that someone suspected him of attempted desertion. “Well, that’s thorny. What with the propaganda and all that ruckus.”

“Bloody thorny, aye. I’m tellin’ ye ‘cos I luv ye, uncle: watch out for meteor showers ‘round the Veers lads.”

Piett felt like the cigarette wasn’t enough and he needed the Port-in-a-Storm again. Even a _literal_ port in the poodoo storm. “So, Lieutenant Veers is going to be prosecuted, right? And General Veers won’t get away unscathed.”

“Ye told the general ‘bout me mom. Told him you have a sister. I can tell you trust him.”

“We have been on good terms.” The smoke and the caf and the booze suddenly tasted at their most bitter on Piett’s tongue.

“Well, nothing’s quite set in durasteel yet. Ain’t gonna look good to arrest a lad whose face’s all over the HoloNet, not right now. But ye jus’ tread careful, eh? An’ don’t feel the slightest bit sorry for Lieutenant Veers! He was an absolute tosser to Kijé, y’know? I can’t bloody stand it when blokes treat chiks like poodoo.” He sounded serious. Piett wondered whether he should believe him. _He’s an officer of the Imperial Navy, after all. Not just his father’s bukee_. “I hate it so kriffing much, I wanna string ‘em up high, flay ‘em with a shock whip an’ while they’re still alive poke out their—”

“I get your point.” Piett reached for the cigarette pack. Another one or not? “And I will remember that about Lieutenant Veers—though I am not going to press charges until I hear Kijé’s version, if that’s what you want to ask me.”

“Loyal to the letter of the law, aye?”

“Letter and spirit.”

Haidar laughed. If there was mockery or bitterness in that, Piett ignored it. You could only demand so much decency out of a former delinquent. “So,” Piett thumbed the cigarette pack open and picked up the lighter with his free hand, “since you have been digging around in the Veers turf, what have you learned about the general?”

“Huh? I ain’t been diggin’ _there_.”

“ _Captain_.”

Silence. A cleared throat noise. “Ain’t nothin’ you don’t know already, I s’pose. I know yer smart—”

“But let’s do a little cross-check anyway, shall we?”

“Fine, fine. Well, he’s got nothin’ too compromisin’. That shoo-shook on Corellia—”

“No Mandalorian words, if you don’t mind.” Even Basic-ised Mandalorian was close enough to the mercenary in the alleyway for discomfort.

“Aye, sir. So, that _bloody mess_ with the Corellian riot police. But there’s more. Barely one week earlier, he’d punched Rear Admiral Jerjerrod in the mug over some chik at a knocking-shop.”

So much for the sad grieving husband. Was Veers already widowed around that time? Definitely. But he was the type to endure a long dry spell rather than break a marriage vow. The image of him in a brothel defied the Human brain. Piett nipped a cig between his front teeth.

“Brace yerself… the chik was Mirialan. Former Rebel.”

He was still for a few seconds before lighting the cigarette. “I see. His only non-Human?”

“Far as intel knows. There’s more shady stuff, anyway. Battlefield natter, for the most part.”

“Such as?”

“They suspect he had an ISB goon shot at a checkpoint on Imdaar an’ covered it up as friendly fire accident.”

“That’s not the Veers I know.”

“The ISB goon was a serial rapist. He only did the nasty poodoo to Rebels an’ detained subjects, of course, so for us it wasn’t a problem.”

“Was that the rumour mill’s opinion?”

“Aye, an’ the opinion of our files on that sleemo as well.”

“I see.” This begged the unsavoury question of why the ISB hadn’t thought this bloke posed any problem of deviancy and felony, and all the possible answers were yet more unsavoury. Piett wasn’t in the mood for asking.

“That’s more like the Veers ye know, eh?”

“Indeed.” Save for the brothel. The Veers he knew, furthermore, would have tried to rescue the poor darling from Rear Admiral Jerjerrod’s brutish clutches or some other heroic tripe, disregarding how the thought police could and would read his actions as an indication of Rebel sympathies.

Perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to end this liaison. Flicking it all away like the ash off this burning cigarette. It was the prudent thing to do. The clever thing.

“Uncle,” Haidar said, “I must deactivate the scrambler now, or they’ll notice I’ve encrypted this comm.”

“Be my guest.”

That brief crackle of static obscured the line again. “Say, uncle, how ‘bout we have a proper family reunion one o’ these days?” Haidar didn’t even need to pretend being casual. “Ain’t sayin’ today, ‘cos I promised Kijé I’m taggin’ along to shop for clothes with her—‘twas her idea, honest!”

“What would your idea of _proper family reunion_ be, anyway?”

“Well, there’s the pub—”

“Oh, please.”

“I kid, I kid! There’s this big fancy evening tonight at Jeskeith Manor. Yer invited.”

Yes, he was. He had seen the invitation message in his inbox. Piett bristled at the awareness of having been spied on. It didn’t surprise him, but damn sure it didn’t put him at ease. He concentrated his annoyance on the smoke in his mouth, and blew it out in a thick cloud. No way in the nine hells he was giving his thought policeman nephew the satisfaction of confirming the self-evident truth that yes, Haidar had peeked at his confidential information.

“So, uncle…”

“Can’t you show up on your own?”

“I’m jus’ a humble NavIntel cap’n, sah. Your invitation says you can bring a person along, by the way, an’ you get a special menu. The hosts wanna make it extra nice for Navy top brass.”

“Your presence there would be quite the opposite of _extra nice_ , I hope you realise.”

“Hah.”

The smoke made Piett’s throat itch. He coughed, and that made the silence one slight bit less heavy. He didn’t feel like smoking anymore but it wouldn’t be good to waste a cig.

“C’mon, I’m just in for the free food. I ain’t quite swimming in Krokus the Hutt’s gold, eh. Y’know how much I get from my job?”

“More than I used to get from mine in the anti-pirate fleet.”

“You’re an admiral now, sir,” Haidar said in a fond tone. “Naw credless lieutenant naw more.”

“Correct, but I don’t think it compares to the wealth of the Jeskeith family. Let alone to the revenues of Jeskeith Aerospace.”

“Point taken. Oi, you’re afraid I’ll pickpocket some rich folk? ‘Cos I don’t pickpocket anymore, I swear on Old Boonta’s bones. They beat the bad habit outta me at the academy.”

“I’m so relieved the Empire has done you good, Haidar.”

“I won’t be an embarrassment to you, sir.”

“Say aloud like a civilised being, _I am an officer of the Imperial Navy_.”

Haidar giggled, then cleared his throat. He went silent, but Piett could hear him draw breaths across the comm line. “I am an officer,” Haidar spoke in a passable Core accent, “of the Imperial Navy. How’s that?”

“More Corellian than Coruscanti, but fine.” His aging lungs be damned, Piett took a deep drag. He coughed again.

“Yer gettin’ sick, uncle?”

“This planet has an horrible climate.”

“Grandma would want you to drink a cuppa spiced tea—”

“I will be fine by tomorrow night. I’d never let you on the loose in such a place as Jeskeith Manor all by yourself.”

“Aye, aye. So, eh, take care, uncle.”

“You too.” More like, _Take_ _care not to get yer Hutt-licked arse in trouble, ye disgraceful wermo_.

“Thanks—”

Piett tapped on the ‘end call’ button. Haidar’s voice broke off.

He sighed in relief at first. Then the eerie dirtside quiet set in again, punctuated with birdsong from outside.

After a moment’s hesitation, Piett mashed the remaining cigarette into the ashtray. _No credless lieutenant no more_.

Despite the emboldening thought, he felt bad about wasting the cigarette. Hollow. A frozen gaping wound was cross-cutting him; it didn’t hurt like a wound in the actual flesh should, but the numbness was as excruciating as pain. It was all about the wasted cigarette, of course. Too much ingrained aversion to waste.

The cold that was creeping on him, deep down into his bones, was this blasted planet’s fault, and it was the blasted robe’s fault for not being heavy and woollen enough. He’d sooner die than allow himself to admit it was because of Veers. Of the way Veers had treated him, and of how Veers was wading into a stream of poodoo and didn’t even realise. Ever the daft dirt-pounder.

Sighing, Piett cupped his face in his hands and pinched the bridge of his nose. _This has to end. This... crazy little Wild Space trip of yours_. It wasn’t a matter of hurt feelings anymore; it was a matter of not getting himself dragged along into the gutter, not after all these years spent fighting tooth-and-nail to crawl out into better places. It was almost relieving to have a legitimate reason to cut the dalliance off.

The terminal beeped, yanking Piett out of the sentimental black hole: there was a new unread message in his inbox. One that wouldn’t be a brain-numbing exercise in polite refusal like the one from Captain Needa’s husband. Piett opened the attachment, an engineering report on the _Executor_ ’s repair status; a small spark shone in the hollowness. A pop-up window informed him it totalled fifteen thousand words. An effective length for distraction.

The author of the report was Chief AI Engineer Yinsi. The report was not positive—when is anything ever positive according to an engineer? Yet, a few paragraphs in, Piett was experiencing the smile-tugging-at-the-mouth thrill and the warm comfort he assumed crewmembers who received loving family messages must feel. The Lady was being patient, waiting for him, watching over him from orbit; that alone gave sense to the galaxy.


	20. Chapter 20

**_Message sent at: 22:32:56 IST_ **

**_From: Chief A. Kastle, Imperial Press Corps_ **

_To: Lt. A. Kijé_

_Lieutenant,_

_I can’t believe you did such a good job with General Veers and his son!_

“Of course you can’t,” Kijé muttered, chewing on a piece of buttered bread and jogan marmalade. She swiped down on the datapad and her fingertip left a mauve smudge on the screen. Dammit.

_That aside, the Press Corps chief in Kuat City sent me a message to express thanks for aiding Captain Sarkli in his mission. Well done this time, but never take personal initiatives again without asking for my explicit permission first._

Kijé stopped chewing and didn’t feel like swallowing the rest of her food anymore. She forced herself to do so for the current bit, then put down the bread and pushed away the plate.

_For tonight’s reception at Jeskeith Manor, you will find your pass attached to this message, along with a comprehensive list of suggested personalities to snap a holo of. Lieutenant Veers is the most important at the moment, so get him from a flattering angle._

Now this was going to be tough.

 _Since I seem to understand both General Veers and Admiral Piett will be in attendance, your presence as senior propaganda officer on the_ Executor _is a boost to the good name of my office. Do not disappoint me!_

Kijé held her breath at the word ‘disappoint’.

_This may conflict somewhat with your personal plans for ‘shore leave’_

No idea why the quotation marks were there. They toned down the congratulatory effect of the message, though, and Kijé doubted this rhetoric achievement was casual.

_but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you again that a Press Corps officer knows better than to be a slacker. One last thing: if you meet Ultana Anya and she offers you a job, decline it. I think it’s unlikely she will, but just in case._

_Glory to the Emperor!_

_-Kastle_

Indeed, why should a HoloNet News reporter who had covered the Clone Wars, taught at the finest journalism schools on Coruscant, and was now Ministry of Information chief liaison officer on Kuat, offer Kijé a job? Kijé wasn’t that good. Although she could have done without the reminder this early in the morning; her head had been clouded and groggy since she had woken up hungover a standard hour, a shower and an anti-nausea medication ago.

Kijé wiped her fingers and closed the message. She could concoct a polite reply later.

At the top of her unread messages lay one her mothers had sent last night. They knew her, and in the message subject they had written _Hi muffin!!!_ with a string of heart and smile emoticons, to pre-emptively reassure her nothing bad had happened.

Kijé knew herself, too. Now that she knew her family was okay, she would procrastinate on a reply. She would make them worry, if they weren’t already and just faking casualness. And if they weren’t worried… well, that meant they didn’t care about her nearly as much as they claimed.

Sipping on her sapir tea, Kijé tapped the message open. It was just two lines; her mothers said they were doing well, hoped she was too, they didn’t want to bother her, she could reply whenever she wanted, and also they were sending in an attachment to the message a few holos of the full moon festival by the ocean last weekend. When Kijé tried to open the attachment, a pop-up window warned her that uncertified files posed a threat to the safety of the Imperial Military HoloNet and had been removed from the message.

She put down the teacup and typed a reply:

_Thank you for the holos! I love them, I’m so glad you had fun at the festival! I’m fine, on shore leave, I don’t think I can tell you where but it’s very nice. I will get in touch next time._

_Hugs,_

_Annice_

She didn’t reread it. Her eyes darted to the ‘send’ button, followed by her index finger. As the message was shot off across parsecs and parsecs of HoloNet signal, it closed on the inbox screen.

Sighing, Kijé sat back on the chair and picked up her half-empty cup. The last sip she’d taken had been warm; now the tea was room temperature, and the chilly barrack-room refectory had her shivering in her hoodie. Granted, the shivers and the sensation of slug-beetles skittering in her stomach, which sapir tea was supposed to quiet down, were due to her mental state rather than the Kuati morning.

At least oversleeping and taking time to recover from the hangover had spared Kijé from showing up at the refectory while the majority of the garrison people were having breakfast. Since she was external personnel, Kijé was not as bound to timetables as they were; she could come and go as she pleased during the day, and in the taxi Sarkli— _Captain_ Sarkli—had laughed and assured her the sentry wouldn’t bat an eyelid if she tried entering the compound after curfew.

She tried not to recall her reply; the attempt made the memory spring to the forefront with redoubled clarity. “ _And is the sentry going to pull a sabacc face too if I try to smuggle in a handsome captain with a cute accent and rad tattoos?_ ”

Kijé grabbed the cup and quaffed the remaining tea, now cold and bitter like fermented root, its tangy sweetness all but vaporised. That blocked out the rest of the memory. Dammit, weren’t ordinary Human brains supposed to retain only sketchy recollections of what they said and did when intoxicated?

Deep breaths, she told herself. Deep and even. Quiet, too, so as not to draw the attention of the handful of off-duty officers and soldiers sitting scattered across the room.

Eyes down, quick steps, she made it through the motions of putting her tray on the rack, collecting her datapad and retreating towards her room. At the staircase that led to her floor, she heard voices and footsteps approaching from upstairs. Instinct told her to back down from the few stairs she’d climbed up and skulk behind the staircase. She had not been this bad on the _Executor_ in weeks, but this was a foreign world and the embarrassment of last night burned like a jellyfish sting; what if some of these laughing men had seen her stagger past the sentry box barefoot?

She pressed her back to the staircase, feeling it rattle as the footfalls neared. The men were right above her, then walked past. In the corner of her eye their shadows flicked on the floor.

Her comlink pinged in her hoodie pocket. It was set to vibration only, but Kijé gasped in fright all the same. Gasped loud enough that the men stopped and gawked at her. She looked away after a glance, but there was no way to deflect their stares off her.

Kijé focused on the comlink, pretending there was no squeeze-clench awful sensation to her stomach. “Kijé,” she mumbled into the device. Good Shiraya, that didn’t sound normal. The men would only stare harder—

“Good mornin’, Lieutenant! Howdy today?”

“Good morning, Captain Sarkli. I am fine, thank you, sir.”

Bless his rotten Rimworlder heart, Sarkli took the cue that she was not alone and not free to speak informally. “Excellent. I was comming ‘cos I might need yer assistance on that sartorial propaganda operation earlier’n I thought today.”

Kijé’s jaw hung while question marks flashed across her brain.

He went on as nonchalant as ever, “Unless you have other orders to carry out, I can pick you up at eleven thirty standard.”

“I—I have no orders today, sir.” She overheard a sound from the men who were watching her, a muffled laughter. Her heart bolted into a gallop. For a moment, she hoped a piece of shipyard debris would fall from the sky and crush Captain Sarkli to red paste.

“Very good.” She could hear the smile in his voice, warm and cute. So could the men. “I will see you later then, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

A big hand pried the comlink off her slack grip. Kijé didn’t have the time and the guts to look up. She was startled to hear a feminine voice boom into her comlink, “Two nerfburgers with rancor sauce and skinny fries, please!”

A laughter followed. The comlink was replaced into Kijé’s palm, with as much indifferent ease as pressing an ‘end call’ button.

“...was that, Lieutenant?” his voice asked from the comlink. “Kijé? Are you still there?”

Kijé whirled around to face the others, ready to scream, but the base of the stairs and the corridor were empty. More footfalls thumped down the staircase. “It... it was nothing,” she stammered into the comlink. “Sorry.”

“Get their name an’ operational number if ye can,” Sarkli said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

“See you later,” she blurted out and shut off the device. The officers, non-coms and troopers on their way to morning muster didn’t spare one glance at her. Someone in the Thunderers, maybe Captain Visdei or General Veers himself, had told her during a training session that inaction and being unable to participate in the fight were worse than defeat; now she understood how gutting a feeling it was. And to think the only reason that phrase had stayed in her mind was because she had blamed herself for not recording it when it had been spoken!

Squeezing herself to the side of the stairs and holding her breath, she made her way back to her room. She was not on the garrison’s duty rosters, and her code cylinder supplied on its own all the movement information and clearances that the garrison database required from her; the muster wasn’t part of her duties. The garrison commander, Veers had told her, would feel safer if she weren’t around. _Yes, sunshine, you COMPNOR people are scary. Does that make you feel a little better?_ It did. Kijé wouldn’t have had it any other way.

When the door slid closed and locked with a beep behind her, she could breathe again. Her back to the door, she exhaled from the deepest bottom of her lungs and inhaled greedily and hastily at first; then she remembered Major Sauris’ instructions for breathing exercises. Amidst the carefully counted and calibrated inhalations and exhalations, Kijé longed for a cigarette.

Instead, she did a dozen push-ups to distract herself from thinking, then studied the attachment to Chief Kastle’s message (avoiding even a glance to the message text itself), browsed through publicly shared holos of the full moon festival. The time continuum warped around her. Next thing she knew, her terminal was connected to a HoloNet site of Naboo local news; the story headline was _20_ _Cutest Images Of Varykino Lake Natural Park Wildlife_. On a smaller display on the terminal, the chrono swore it was 11:16 IST.

Kijé slapped a hand over her mouth to smother a cry, and wasted another precious standard minute staring at the chrono. On the holoscreen, a baby shaak floating in a pond fixed a judgmental glare on her. Her fingers ghosted over her makeup-less cheeks; they touched a spot of rough skin—sweet Shiraya, of all the damn times to get eczema!

She rushed into her uniform, nearly falling off the bed as she struggled with her boots that hadn’t given her any such problems in months. That piled insult upon injury—sweat on her back and under her armpits in addition to her ugly plain face.

Blinking back salty drops that could have been either tears or sweat, she looked one last time at the chrono before shutting off the terminal: she was already late. Even if the chrono said there were five minutes left to the appointed time. Just by entertaining the thought, for a fleeting second, that there might be enough time to at least put on some lipstick, she had caused an irreparable delay. She lunged for her cap and gloves first, then for a lipstick in the dedicated section of her beauty case, and dashed out of the room.

She made it to the watch post at the main gate by 11:29 IST—she stole a look at the chrono on the wall behind the sentry, and almost dropped to the ground in relief—with barely constrained hyperventilation, a sticky sheen of sweat under her clothes, her gloves and cap on and her right fist clenched around the lipstick.

As soon as the sentry cleared her for exit, and the gate slid open onto the sunny sidewalk, Kijé swivelled the lipstick open and painted her lips in two quick strokes, then buried the stick in a trousers pocket.

The sidewalk wasn’t empty; there were Human pedestrians, a few protocol droids, tiny bright green birds skittering about before leaping into a flight, passing speeders on the roadway. But Captain Sarkli was not there.

The more Kijé caught her breath, the more a mounting anger constricted her chest. He wasn’t here. He had tricked her. He had forgotten—

The hovertram halted, and an olive drab figure stood on the car threshold as it opened. Sarkli didn’t even need to look around to spot her, and he broke into a grin that was at odds with the dignity of the uniform. _I really was drunk last night_ , Kijé thought, straightening herself to attention as he sauntered up to her.

She was not afraid of him. He did not move like a military person and she wondered if he ever got detained under the accusation of not being a genuine officer but a second-rate imposter. No, what Kijé was afraid of was that she had trusted him. That she _was_ trusting him.

“G’day agin, Lieutenant!”

She flinched. His smile flickered. _Oh no, oh no no no, you fouled up, dammit, Annice, do something, say something nice—_ “I apologise for the delay, sir.”

“Yer not late.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you, sir.”

Sarkli gestured at her to follow him down the sidewalk. “How’re ye feelin’ today?”

“Fine, sir.” Kijé tried her best not to sound aggressive or negative in any way, but the toxic wish to snap remained, peering and toothed and eager to sink its fang into a happy oblivious sentient, like an opee sea killer underwater. “I hope the same of you.”

Just before flanking him, she shot him a boots-to-cap appraising look; his uniform was clean, his butt more shapely than she remembered, and he emitted a faint smell of military-issue aftershave lotion, the same General Veers and most men on the _Executor_ used themselves. He looked fine, indeed. Fine in everything and troubled by nothing at all, unlike her. _I hope you break your legs, sir_.

“Eh, it’s all right, can’t complain... Got uncle Fir— _Admiral Piett_ ,” Sarkli switched to less accented, slower-spoken Basic, “to take me along to the dinner at Jeskeith Manor tonight. You know the one.”

“Of course, sir! I am going too.”

“Aw, thank ol’ Boonta!” He laughed. “I was jus’ thinkin’ I’d like some friendly company there.”

“Pardon me, but your uncle, the admiral...?”

“Uncle Fir’s not one for friendliness. Besides, I think he’s in a poodoo mood, dunno over what. Do you?”

“What—? Oh, no. I didn’t notice anything, really.” Which was pretty damn logical, since she had not _seen_ Piett in person for over a standard week. Still, she felt bad for not having noticed anything, and resentful at Sarkli for pointing that failure out. “He was supposed to come dine with General Veers and his staff two days ago, though,” she hurried to add, “but he cancelled at the last moment so the general invited me in his place.”

“Fancy that! I too would rather invite you to dinner than my uncle, anyway.”

“I am flattered, sir.” Kijé hoped her tone struck the right balance between respectful like a good subordinate officer and cold like a bucket of iced water to the testicles. “Sorry, but where are we headed now?”

“I asked ‘round and apparently they do the best sandwiches in town ten standard minutes’ walk from here. I figured it’s better’n grabbin’ nerfburgers at whatever fast-food they have at the mall.”

“You don’t like fast-food restaurants, sir?”

“Naw, not anymore. That sorta food tastes too much like Rebel Alliance rations.”

“The Rebels have _rations_?”

“Eh, they’re military after all. Fleets fly on their stomach, as Commandant Hux put it.”

“Oh, I’m sure their rations taste awful.”

“Aye, that’s the case when they steal from our supply depots.”

Kijé’s brain shouted out a half dozen thoughtcrimes that statement could be liable of. Then she blacked it out to avoid becoming part of the crimes. She stopped seeing the street ahead, and she nearly collided with a flower pot and the green and blue plants that branched out of it. She swerved at the last moment and collided with Sarkli. She felt him flinch. Then his arm clasped her shoulders. Steadying her without squeezing.

The pressure, the strength and support grounded her back to reality. They were still walking, albeit in very small and slow steps. Her head fitted just right in the crook between Sarkli’s shoulder and neck.

_Annice, what do you think you’re doing?_

The voice in her brain sounded like her mothers, after she told them she had dropped out of university and enlisted. The first independent decision of her life. Just like that time, she at once regretted even imagining that independence was good for her.

But she had not left the Press Corps after all, and now she did not slip out of Sarkli’s hold.

“Am I doin’ this... right?” he asked. “If it’s weird I’ll leggo—”

“It’s okay.”

He was silent for a few seconds. Kijé didn’t dare look up at him, and it would be hard to read his face at that angle anyway. She could see the street and the civilian passers-by, none of which shot them so much a glance.

“Bet you’d be comfier if I had tits down there where your head is,” he whispered.

The joke was true and not funny, but Kijé chuckled. “I’m sure my girlfriend would tell me the same thing if I had one.”

It was the plain truth, but also a polite warning for him not to get inappropriate ideas in his mind. _Wait, Annice. He’s a spy. He surely has read your dossier. Even the sexual orientation part. He knows you’re not into females only. Dammit_.

“You’re fine wi’ not havin’ one?”

“I... yes. A bit. Not always.”

“Didn’t mean that it’s a bad move to stay on your own. It’s hard to be in the military an’ keep a sweetheart. The Navy’s yer first an’ foremost mistress, heh.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Not quite mine. But other folks’ experience, aye.”

“Rebels, them too?” she dared ask, her voice so quiet it might drown in the street noises.

“Uh-huh.” He raised his voice like he was saying something funny, “Oi, here’s the place!”

By reflex at the tone, Kijé smiled.

The sandwich place was worth smiling at, anyway. A red tent shaded the sidewalk and the tables in front of it, where she and Sarkli sat down; a holomenu sprang to life from the projector at the centre of the table, but the rows of sliced bread, fresh vegetables, meats and sauces on display through the window was a far more enticing sight.

She tapped on the hologram for a sandwich with pepper sauce and a Kuati fish that, according to the menu description, was _similar to the Naboo colo clawfish_. Sarkli went for bantha tartare and Mandalorian-style mustard. After a Human server brought in the sandwiches, Sarkli removed his gloves, took a bite, and made a face.

“Too hot?” Kijé asked.

“Naw! Not at all, that’s the problem. I was practically raised on Mando mustard. This stuff’s blander’n toothpaste. Care to try?” He broke a piece of bread, soaked it in the sauce and handed it to Kijé. She took it, but just the smell made her wrinkle her nose.

“Hold on,” Sarkli fixed her a wide-eyed stare, “ _this_ is hot to you?”

“Very much so. I’m sorry.” She resumed munching on her own sandwich, which didn’t taste remotely like the slices of colo clawfish from her childhood’s beach barbecues, but was tender and bittersweet where the colo clawfish was tough to chew like rubber and salted like seawater. “Pardon me, but what you told me about the Mandalorians on Axxila—well, I was wondering something.”

“Aye aye.” He wiped sauce off his lips with a tissue, then flicked his tongue to lick the sauce off the tissue.

“Are there many who still live there, on the planet? Mandalorians themselves, not the wild beasts they imported.”

“Less’n a million, I reckon. Ain’t that much habitable land left on Axxila, an’ plenty of ‘em got so mixed over the years they forgot they were Mandos. But ‘round Rikuba City, they take their Mando’ade banthacrap damn seriously. Which means they brawled so much it was like a civil war. Heh! That’s what uncle Fir said. Didn’t look much like a civil war to me when I hung ‘round Little Sundari, but it didn’t seem nothin’ strange to me.” The sandwich gone, Sarkli slouched back on the wicker chair. “This place does. Arkanis, too, but that was an academy. It was like jail—but in a good sense, y’know?”

Kijé nodded, wondering whether she should report this defamatory statement to the ISB. _Dammit, Annice, smarten up: he has buddies in the ISB. They will protect him and turn the charge around against you_.

“They both were formative times for me, naw kiddin’. Formative, that’s what Commander Hux said. I’ve taken a fancy to that word. I think he said it, blast, when? I think it was the first speech to my class of cadets. Got to listen to plenty of speeches on Arkanis. That helped me polish up my Basic a lot... an’ then I had to forget it an’ talk like a Rimworlder street bukee all o’er agin.”

“Was it the admiral who placed you into the academy?”

Sarkli laughed. “He thought I was dead, or worse, gone astray like my father.”

“Oh? Is your father a Rebel?”

“Naw.”

“Phew!”

“He did die on Alderaan, so there’s that.”

“...When Alderaan was...?”

“Coupla standard years before. Food poisoning.” He waved a hand. A small stain of mustard graced the sleeve of his tunic; Kijé tried not to stare. “It’s fine, eh. I don’t even remember his face. Mum didn’t keep no holos.”

Kijé thought of the holodisc in the living room, _Dad’s pics_ written in big bright pen strokes on the spine and front of the disc, placed on a shelf that was low enough for her to reach it even when she was a kid. Her stepmother’s idea. The same principle ruled books in the house: _if Annice is big enough to fetch it, she can read it_. Kijé’s mother rolled her eyes at the equation of height and mental maturity, and it had taken Kijé several years to figure out the ensuing banter between her mothers was wholly good-natured.

“Yer smilin’.”

She realised she was indeed smiling, and covered her mouth with a tissue. She didn’t want to think about how ugly her smile must be with her face devoid of make-up; of course, not wanting to think about it brought the thought even more to the forefront.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout yer own pops? Bet he’s an alright fella.”

Kijé wiped the mouth a few times; there was no need for it, but that small lapse of time dimmed the surprise effect of Sarkli’s question. “He was. He died in a speeder crash when I was very young.” Before he could offer condolences, Kijé put the tissue down and tilted her head forward, a bit closer to him. “Wait, wasn’t that in my dossier?”

“I didn’t read yer dossier past the basics.”

“No?”

“Naw. I ain’t no thought policeman no more.”

“But then...” Fear struck Kijé dumb, strangled her voice to a bleat, like when her lecturer asked the undergrads class a question and she forced herself to speak up an answer. “Your investigation, Lieutenant Veers...”

“Gonna be my last one. Then I’m a normal Navy man for good. No idea what I’ll do, but,” he shrugged his shoulders, “as long as it’s not _this_ , it’s fine.”

He had not been looking Kijé in the eye, and his gaze was lost somewhere towards the interior of the restaurant. Kijé saw Sarkli’s eyes didn’t follow the server’s movements as he brought a Hutt-sized bowl of ice cream to a Human youth a few tables down.

Then his eyes flicked to her, attentive and sad and unreadable all at once. Kijé forced herself to hold Sarkli’s gaze, but her back stiffened.

“I’m puttin’ his sorry arse under arrest tonight after the fancy dinner. He’s tried to flee the planet already, an’ his landlady found a suicide pill in his stuff. There’s not much time left ‘fore he slips out of reach, in one way or another. So,” he crossed his arms on the table and leaned over, “please tell me how I can make it discreet.”

Kijé’s eyes shifted to a strip of blue sky visible above Sarkli’s cap, a tiny blue patch confined between low buildings and the edge of the tent. The orbital ring and the ships above weren’t visible at that angle and you could forget they were there. Dammit, double dammit, what a stupid distracting thought to focus on, almost subversive... Kijé bit her lip and the stabbing little pain snapped her back to reality. “You said you’re coming to the dinner, didn’t you? Are you going to be there all night, as a guest like the others?”

“Aye. Uncle Fir ain’t too happy right now, but I know he will be. No Axxilan likes to be left alone ‘round Coreworlders for too long without a familiar face in sight.”

“I’m sure the admiral will be fine. He’s used to it by now.”

“Eh, I’ve got my doubts... but please an’ carry on, Annice. Sorry I interrupted.”

Her face flushed at the sound of her name, rolling so casual and exposed on his tongue. She had gotten used last night to the slight mangling of it in his accent—he said it like _ah-niss_ instead of the common _ai-nise_ —but something had been different now, in the stark sunlight and the uniforms.

“You... you and Lieutenant Veers should act like you are friends. Well, I don’t think he will agree, so you will have to do the work for both of you.”

“Consider it done an’ done!”

“And then...” The general was going to be at the party too. Would he know? Did he already know? “You could... At the end of the night...”

“Oh, that’s goin’ to come soon! That wermo’s a drinking lightweight. I’ll make sure he has plenty more drinks’n he can stand, then zap on him as soon as he gets sleemo-legged. If anyone asks, I’m takin’ him home. Sounds good to the Press Corps?”

There was his smile as he spoke, his soft attentive eyes, the tilt of his head resting with the chin on the meat of his palm, a pale inch of skin and a reptile-scale-tattooed inch peering between his sleeve and his glove. He was real and fascinating and interested in her. Not even forcing herself to remember Chenda could make her stop trusting him. Dammit. “Yes, good.” Double dammit. His smile broadened, and staring at his mouth Kijé blurted out, “This won’t harm the general, will it?”

Silence. Her eyes fixed on the holomenu projector.

“This investigation, I mean.” Her voice was faint, almost lost in the hubbub of speeders on the roadway. “General Veers is very valuable to us in the Press Corps. You need to understand.”

“Ah, I do. For whatever wretched reason, this galaxy loves weepy father-son stories. Mothers, eh, you ever notice how often they kill ‘em off for cheap sobs in holoflicks?”

“I aspired to be a gender historian, of course I notice—but that’s beside the point. Please, Haidar. Don’t let the general get caught in the poodoo storm.”

He puffed up his cheeks for a few seconds, during which Kijé felt like the atmosphere had been sucked out of Kuat City and she couldn’t have drawn a breath had she remembered to do so. Then Sarkli burst out laughing. Kijé blinked and glanced up and down to meet his eyes and avoid them again; he was laughing, but never took his eyes off of her. Her stomach roiled in anticipation of whatever humiliation or failure was looming.

“Sorry... sorry,” he caught his breath, “it’s yer accent, the way you said ‘poodoo’.” Kijé didn’t hear any difference in how he uttered the word, but she kept her trap shut. “It’s funny. Funny in the good sense, I swear.”

“...Thank you, I’m pleased it is. So...”

“Never try to boss men like me around, luv, is all the advice I’m givin’ ye.” He didn’t drop his voice; the smile didn’t leave his face for an instant.

Kijé gripped the edge of the table, nails pressing painfully on the plywood. Dammit. Double dammit. Fuck. She’d fucked up. Ruined everything. Everything. Trying to help. The general was going to kill her.

“D’ye have a crush on Iron Max? Like, yer actively tryn’ to sneak into his knickers?”

She shook her head. The motion left her dizzy like she’d been spinning in a zero-g room.

“Fancy him in any way beside the fact he looks good in holoposters?”

It was a chance to fix things. _Don’t fuck this up too, Annice_. “He is important to the Imperial war effort.” She could sense the quiver of crying at the bottom of her throat. “To the morale of the army. And he is a genuinely good man. Whatever Lieutenant Veers is up to—”

“High treason.”

“...General Veers does not deserve to be penalised along with him.”

“Unless he tries to help Lieutenant Veers, he’ll be fine. No worries! Or, eh, unless he’s a wee... manifest? Is that a word in Basic? Manifest in bein’ on his bukee’s side.”

“What... what would that mean, exactly?”

Sarkli pulled down his lips and shrugged. “Use yer best judgment, and don’t go too far to help him. None of ‘em two is worth it.”

“Are you implying _I_ am more valuable than General Veers?” A part of Kijé’s weak mind, one of the many such parts she loathed and was ashamed of but couldn’t excise no matter if she tried, had the gall to rejoice. Good Shiraya, that was a horrible thought. She better not buy even one nice pair of shoes today to make amends for it.

“For someone, I think you are.”

“My mothers are several parsecs away and hold no position in the Empire, except as loyal tax-paying and law-abiding citizens.”

“I was referrin’ to me.”

Silence. Speeder traffic. Clink of tableware and an oven chime from inside the café. Sweat popping on her brow.

Sarkli shifted on his seat; the noise startled Kijé into looking up at his face. She was surprised to see a perfect, albeit masculine, mirror to her fear. His eyes were bigger and bluer than she’d ever noticed.

“That went too far, eh?” he said. “Well, blast if I care. Yer the first person I’ve liked in ages that I can like jus’ ‘cos I like you. Not as a tool to get intel from that I’ll stab in the back later.”

The combined gravitational pull of terror to seem rude and of nameless, shapeless guilt pangs, familiar companions of her mind still walking in circles around Chenda ( _tool, stab in the back later_ ), kept Kijé glued to the chair. “I could report you for this, Captain,” she whispered. “Putting me above General Veers is embarrassing enough, but criticising your own past work? As if you are sorry for the Rebels you helped bring to justice? And that offensive remark on the rations the Rebel stole from our depots? These are essentially all anti-Imperial thoughts.”

“Good. That means you have a weapon against me. Yer not helpless.” He relaxed, and smiled again.

Sweet Shiraya, but it was an encouraging knowledge. Kijé felt allowed—emboldened—to find Sarkli’s face cute. It was very unlike the admiral’s, except for the deep-seated eyes; Kijé had never seen Admiral Piett permit himself a smile as frank and broad as Sarkli’s. How did an innocent-looking guy like this get recruited into Infiltrations? Because he was innocent-looking, perhaps. Appearances mattered for effective deception; neither Kijé nor Lieutenant Commander Ardan, after all, had spotted a traitor in a stormtrooper armour until it was too late.

Kijé swallowed and asked a little louder, “Is that a good thing in your view?”

“Aye.”

“So... you will leave General Veers out of Lieutenant Veers’ matter if I keep mum about—”

“Aye. But,” Sarkli raised an index finger, so close to Kijé’s face it almost touched her lips, “if Iron Max aids or shelters his bukee or covers his scrawny arse in any way, he’s takin’ a plunge into the sarlacc pit too.”

Kijé stared him dead in the eye and nodded.

“We have a deal then.” Sarkli drummed his fingers on the table, then got to his feet. “Let’s go raid that shoppin’ mall!”

“Oh. Yes.” Kijé wriggled off of the chair and onto her feet. Her calves felt as heavy as concrete in her boots, and a few unidentified muscles down her back pulled, choosing now to protest that she’d been sitting too stiff.

“Liked this place?” Sarkli asked, his voice lower than an innocent small-talk question would have warranted, while he put his gloves and cap back on. “None o’ the staff are thought police snitches, just so you know.”

“Which is why you picked this place for talking, uh, business? Is that so?”

“Aye.”

When they were farther down the sidewalk, Sarkli politely keeping his strides measured to Kijé’s successful but slow attempt not to totter as she walked, he added, “If ye wanna eat the true best sandwiches in Kuat City, head to Blauex’s Burger. But never talk dirty business there. They’re all on the ISB’s payroll.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’ll keep it in mind. Is that our tram?”

He looked, then waved at it. “Oi, wait up!”

Kijé laughed. “It’s droid-driven, Captain.”

He’d already broken into a run towards the stop.  “Oi, clanker! Mate, wait up!” he kept calling to the tram.

She followed, and leapt across the tram door behind Sarkli just before it slid shut again. Their panting was the loudest noise in the carriage and she felt, or imagined to feel, the passengers’ disapproving stares on her naked, puffed, stupid face. But Sarkli was there being noisy with her, and that made it better.

“Thanks, clanker mate,” he breathed.

The driver droid replied, “Not a problem, meat bag, sir.” A holotag above the driver’s cabin read: _This driver’s politeness subroutine will be restored as soon as possible. Please do not speak to the driver_.


	21. Chapter 21

“If you don’t mind,” Zev said, “I’m going to need privacy.”

Petra’s face fell as she realised Zev wasn’t going to humour her gossiping, yet she tried to make it all about maternal worry. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, no, just...” Zev pressed his hands to his crotch. He hoped the gesture was understandable to Chagrians.

“Ohh! I have seen Humans in the nude before, but that’s okay if you will be more comfortable if I leave. Give me a shout if you need anything.”

Zev elevated mental thanks to the Three Goddesses as Petra exited the room and closed the door. He kicked the blanket away and flung himself to the chamber pot. Emptying his bladder was bliss. Like being allowed to break ranks and guzzle down a water canteen at the end of PT.

He glanced around the room and, as the waters kept flowing, his eyes fell on the green synthwood writing desk by the window; his suitcase lay on the desk. Zev did not remember putting it there.

He forced the flow to hurry up and, ignoring the sensation of a wet bell-end on the inside of his thigh, he tottered to rummage inside the suitcase. All the spare clothes and his stuff were there, minus the suicide pill.

“Fuck...” Zev groped around the desk, through his clothes, then dropped to his knees and checked the floor. “Fuck, no!”

A knock at the door made him leap to his feet, his body straightening by reflex to attention. The Empire had corrupted him so deeply already. “Wait up, I’m naked,” he growled.

“Good!” Silas spoke through the closed door. “I know Humans are into bathing suits, but I’m glad you’re past that evolutionary stage, Lieutenant!”

Zev considered roasting the old geezer for that anti-Human comment. But it was an Imperial thing to do and he would die—just not sure how—before he sank so low.

Silas prattled on, “The bathroom’s nice and clean if you want to take a bath. Real water, not sonic!”

“Ah. Thanks. Yes.” Zev relaxed and took a deep breath. That made him aware of the sweat stench that his body emanated. His hair stuck glued to his head, his forehead, the edges of his cheek. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist and skulked into the corridor towards the bathroom. He didn’t look the elderly Chagrian man in the face, but Silas said behind his back, “You can use any soap you want, just read the label first so you’re sure it’s okay for Human skin! I used one for Karkarodons once and I thought I was melting alive—”

“Thank you!” Zev ducked into the bathroom and shut the door. He slipped out of the towel, sank to sit at the side of the bathtub and turned on the water. It was so cold he yelped when the trickle hit his forearm. At another attempt with the tap, the water turned scorching hot. Then the tap sensor picked up the reading of his skin and a robotic voice said in Core-accented Basic, “ _Species detected: Human. Proceeding to adjust temperature and salinity._ ”

The water thinned and sputtered, then flowed stronger again. Zev smelled chlorine and a hint of copper. His skin crawled. He wanted a sonic shower like those on Star Destroyers. Or the black sand beach at the edge of Grijon Bay, where his mother drove him for a swim every day in summer. He wanted that grey-blue water and his mother holding him under the armpits and telling him to lie flat on his stomach, close his mouth and fight the urge to flail his arms and legs. _I know it’s hard, but don’t be afraid, okay? I’m here and I’m holding you_.

Eyes closed, his cheek against the hard angle of the tub, he remembered saltwater splashing in his eyes and in his mouth. _Slowly, Zevvie_. He didn’t want mom to let go of him, so he kept flailing.

One day his father was on home leave and came to the beach with them. Zev had told him he’d learned to swim, and when he tried he found out he could; his father had taken him to swim all the way where the water was deep, and mom had waved at them from the kiosk where she had gone to drink a cold quinberry juice.

Zev tapped his forehead on the tub edge; it hurt, a searing pain on the thin skin of that delicate area. He couldn’t swim to make his mother happy, but it was fine to please that horrible man.

The water stopped flowing and the tap made a chiming sound. “ _This tub is 65% full. Do you wish to add more water?_ ”

“Fuck that.”

“ _Please add species-friendly products to the water, and enjoy your bath_.”

Colourful bath bombs and soap capsules awaited on the shelves over the tub. While searching for one tagged as safe for Humans, Zev couldn’t help noticing the family holos again. Chagrian tadpoles were every bit as ugly and worm-like as Huttlets; younger Petra and Silas, all smiles around the tadpoles, were dressed in white-collar office suits, identical to the clothes Zev’s paternal grandparents used to wear.

He located a capsule of soap that wouldn’t cover his skin in blisters. Once poured in the bath water, the foam coloured it teal and smelled like Kitonak vanilla. Zev crawled into the water. The tap had been a fucking nuisance but had done its one job right: the water was warm and pleasant to sink into. He did all the way to his mouth. If he just slid down with his whole head, and stayed there as the water rushed in his nostrils and down into his lungs…

The inside of his nose itched. He picked at it, and the soapy water on his fingertip made things worse. He sneezed hard a couple times. “Bless you, Lieutenant!” cried Petra outside the bathroom. Fuck, he wasn’t going to be caught drowned in a vanilla-scented bath. If he had to die, he would do so as a Rebel: arrested, tortured and slain by the Empire. Fuck saving the ISB any trouble.

Zev shifted to a more comfortable position. The water sloshed at his motion. He gathered pinkish foam in his palms and rubbed it on his scalp and over his hair. He let the soap burn the dirt off his skin until it didn’t sting anymore, rinsed off the foam and reclined again, his eyes closed against the water streaming down his temples. He didn’t want to watch the water turn dark with his filth. It was just good enough to feel himself come clean at that skin-deep level.

All too soon, the water tap AI returned to life. “ _This water is now impure. Please leave the tub and empty it. Please select a new replenish if you wish to continue bathing, or the cleaning routine if you do not wish to use the tub again_.”

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” Zev groaned, “I’m out. No need to get bitchy.”

He hauled himself to sit on the edge of the tub. His arms felt like ice cream, his whole lower body like carbonite, and his fingertips had developed Hutt skin. Something in the foamy depth of the bathtub made a popping wet sound, like a feminine mouth letting go of a penis in the holoporns Zev watched as a cadet. The water started flushing down with a low growl. It made him think of dianogas and scum-squids and sarlacc spores long hidden in the plumbing.

Zev got out of the water for good and rubbed his body dry with the towel. His skin became red and abraded, for the Chagrians’ notion of a soft towel fabric was coarser than the mass-manufactured effects in Imperial barracks.

At last, with the towel rolled around his waist, he looked around for a hairdryer. None in sight. None in the cupboards. He opened the door and called into the corridor, “Hey, do you have something for drying Human hair?”

Petra peeked from the kitchen threshold, a bowl in the crook of her arm and a mixer spoon in the other. The content of the bowl was a blood-red jelly that Zev tried not to stare at. “Ohh, my!” said Petra. “It’s too long to dry out in the sun, isn’t it?”

“I’m… afraid so.”

“Why do Humans need hair, anyway?” Silas grumbled from the living room. “It’s too short to protect from the cold, it clogs the drains—”

“It’s okay, never mind,” Zev said, “I’ll just use the towel.”

“Why is your skin so pink?” Petra plunged the spoon in the bowl and marched over to Zev. She took his forearm and turned it up and down, squinting at the rubbing marks. The red jelly moved like a beating heart. “Poor baby, does it hurt?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I just… I think I rubbed the towel a bit too hard and…”

“You Humans are so delicate. Oh my. No no, Lieutenant, I’m not letting that towel touch your pretty hair if this is what happens.” She slipped the towel off Zev’s waist, and he yelped at his sudden nudity, which the old hag didn’t seem to mind. Petra went on, as commanding as a mother, “Go to Miss Loire upstairs. She is required to have cleaning products for Humans, by the law, a lot more of them than we do. Dearie, you are pink in your cheeks as well now! Are you sure you used Human-friendly soap?”

Silas made a noise between ‘haw-haw!’ and a catarrhal cough. “ _As bidu, dona?_ This is why the Emperor is right. Species need to keep to themselves. Or we hurt each other without even noticing. Like that Quarren youngling at the swimming pool, that one who peed himself in the water and all the Human kids and our kids got skin rashes—do you remember him?”

The hangover gave a fresh squeeze to Zev’s head, under the combined attack of the gross red jelly and the internalised speciesist banthashit. He wheeled and dashed for his bedroom, put on a clean shirt, pants, trousers—trousers off, curse, put on socks, put trousers back on—and without bothering even with his boots he went out of the flat and up the stairs. He hesitated in front of the synthwood door. It was chipped and discoloured; last time, at night, he hadn’t noticed. A small red light shone above the peephole.

Zev ran a hand over his wet hair that was dripping water into the collar of his shirt and making him shiver. The door didn’t appear to have a touchpad or even a bell, so he knocked. How could sentients accept to live on an affluent first-rate Core planet that didn’t allow them to use doorbells?

Footfalls brought him back to his current humiliation; he gazed into the peephole and attempted a smile.

“Just a sec!” Loire said.

Zev nodded at the peephole. The back of his neck, however, was starting to ache from the coolness and wetness. The Clawdite concept of ‘just a sec better be less of a ludicrous lie than that of Human girls, he thought.

Sooner than he feared, the door opened. Loire stood on the threshold in her short-haired Human appearance and a bright green bathrobe. “Hello, Lieutenant. You should have brought your code cylinder; the door would have unlocked automatically.”

And he’d thought the academy and Star Destroyers had no privacy… He waved a hand. “It’s fine, no worries. I wanted to ask a little favour, if you…”

“Well, these aren’t my usual working hours, but sure. Who am I to say no to a celebrity? Please come in.”

After the celebrity comment, Zev would have rather preferred coming into and out of the whole building, from the upper storey, through a window. He meekly shuffled inside.

“You see, I took a bath and my hair’s still wet,” he hurried to say before Loire mistook his intentions and his hormones decided not to correct her. “My landlady said you might have a hairdryer.”

“I do. Please take a seat in the bedroom where it’s comfy, I’ll fetch it for you.”

“Thanks.” He went to sit on the edge of the bed. It was big, occupying almost half of the room. The synthcotton coverlet smelled of nlorna flower detergent and it was hard to think he had leaked spunk on it.

“Here.” Loire walked in, carrying an old-fashioned pistol-shaped hairdryer. “I’ve already set it to Human hair.”

“Thanks.” He toggled the thing on and, within a few minutes, his hair was dry. A bit messy, but dry.

Loire watched him with a raised eyebrow and a comb in a hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, more defensive than he meant to.

“Scoot over and pass me that thing, please.”

She sat behind Zev, close but not touching his back. A shiver ran down his spine nonetheless, and his cock gave a lazy, ‘hey, what’s up?’ twitch. He winced when, under the rush of hot hair from the hairdryer, Loire started running the comb down his hair.

“Pulling too hard?”

“It’s okay. B-but you don’t have to…” Damn it, the hair pulling was not helping the growing tight fit of his pants. His mind presented him with projections of how Loire must look as her arms moved upwards and the bathrobe slipped off to expose the cleavage of her Human-shifted breasts. Zev’s fists balled up on the coverlet, chastely placed at the side of his thighs and well away from his groin. She wouldn’t object if he started touching himself now, but it was not polite, not now, while she was doing such a kind and motherly thing for him.

At last she switched off the hairdryer. “There you go! Lemme take a better look.” She took his shoulder and gently turned him around. “Now that’s a handsome young man! I wouldn’t have you walk out with your hair still half-wet, you know. You would have caught a cold.”

“And the Empire would have blamed you.”

“With good reason!” Loire gave him a peck on the cheek and, while her face was there, she cooed to his ear, “So, what else can I do for you, Lieutenant Veers?”

 _Don’t call me that_. “…I do have an idea. If you have time.”

“Of course. Do tell what’s in your handsome head.”

“Do you…” Zev’s breath hitched. “Do you happen to know the Rebel commander General Hera Syndulla?”

“Oh, darling. I know what you wish for, but the law forbids me to take the likenesses of any known Rebel sympathiser or fighter.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. It’s quite a common fantasy among Imperial officers, I assure you, but even if you mean to dominate—”

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine, I understand, it’s okay.” Zev got to his feet. “Thank you very much again. And I’m sorry.”

Loire started to say something, propose alternatives, but Zev hurried out of the apartment and up the stairs. He didn’t stop at the Mazepas’ door. Two storeys up, the landing led to a metal door that opened to the sunlit, windswept roof of the apartment building.

Holding a hand over his eyes, Zev stepped out. A colony of birds, small and black, took flight as soon as he was in sight; for a few seconds the air was abuzz like a hyperspace engine charging up for the jump. Then there was quiet and azure sky and black feathers and green droppings on the floor. Birds didn’t know how lucky they were. _They can fly away and leave all their shit far behind them_.

He found a clean spot by the parapet and sat there with his shoulders leaning on the warm iron bars that smelled of rust; it was a sad smell of degradation and unaddressed inequality, but he didn’t mind it after all the soaps and laundry scents.

He squinted up at the sky, daring the sun of this star system to burn his eyes. It did not, and his pupils adjusted enough to let him make out the thin line of the orbital ring. Tiny glinting objects that were big starships. He raised an arm, his hand making the gun gesture, and made pew-pew noises at the Star Destroyers high up in the outer atmosphere. What else could he do now? How else would he ever fight them?

There was no fight for him, it was that simple. Not even the illusion of it, in bed with a woman who could have let him indulge in that fantasy for a reasonable fee.

He stayed there for a while, until his mind was dizzy with sun and his skin as hot as the iron railing that scalded his shoulders through the shirt. When he crawled back to the Mazepas’ apartment, Petra didn’t ask him where he’d been. She just said lunch was ready. The stuff in the plates, three of which were arranged at the living room table, was the cooked stage of the red jelly; it had the appearance of a raw nerf steak.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t like red meat.”

Silas, already sit at his place and armed with cutlery, made the _ayoooo_ sound that translated ‘what the fuck?’ into Chagri. “This isn’t meat, Lieutenant! It’s Lothalian prairie fig.”

Zev stared at him, then at the plates, then at Petra who tiptoed past him with a pot full of smoking gravy. “It can’t be,” Zev said. “That plant is extinct.”

“Oh, how could it be if I can find it at the Primeday market?” said Petra. “For just ten credits a fruit!”

“It has gone extinct. When the Empire strip-mined Lothal and destroyed most of the planetary arable land.”

“Extinct on Lothal,” Silas said. “TaggeCorps bought the best crops, imported them to Kuat, and here you go! Better Lothalian prairie fig pudding than you could taste on Lothal itself! Not that I and my wife _can_ taste it, eh, but it’s very nutritious and it squishes nicely under your teeth. All the Humans we’ve met swear it’s very good.”

Without a further word, lest he shouted something that would land him on the first Kessel-bound prison barge, Zev sat at the table. His hands trembled and itched to grab his plate and hurl it at the holoportrait of Grand Vizier Amedda. But a ladle got in the way. It was full of black gravy that smelled sweet and sour.

“Is this enough?” asked Petra, then she poured him two more ladlefuls. “Eat, boy, you’re thin! You need to be pretty for the next time you show up on the HoloNet!”

Zev cast his eyes down, just in case he couldn’t hold himself and burst out crying. The aroma of the food got into his nostrils even though he tried to breathe through his mouth. The gravy combined with the prairie fig pudding and something in it triggered a memory, an association with something his mother had once made that he’d wolfed down chattering away, so happy, he couldn’t remember why. If it was because his father was there with them, he didn’t want to remember.

His eyes began watering. Blinking, he picked up the knife and fork and cut a morsel of pudding.

“How is it?” Zev heard Petra ask, as if through a comm across several parsecs.

Silas butted in, “I’ll tell you how it is, hmm!” A portable scanner had materialised in his hand over the plate. “It says there is too much salt in the gravy—”

“I haven’t eaten anything this good since I was very young,” Zev muttered with his mouth full, and didn’t say or hear a word for the rest of the meal, until there was but a thin trail of gravy left on the plate.

He looked up to meet Petra’s gaze, fonder than usual. Maybe he’d reminded her of one of her tadpoles, grown up enough to be called a boy, now gone out into the galaxy. For an instant, maybe two, Zev longed to be that boy and to tell her he had come back home. “I’m going to get myself a glass of water.” He got to his feet and gestured at her to stay sit. “Would you like me to bring anything from the kitchen?” Stars, they kept a kitchen and bothered to cook, lacking taste buds as their species did, just to make their Human military guests comfortable. They were happy servants, with the happiness of the brainwashed—

“Your comlink is making a racket,” Silas said. His tongue flicked out of his mouth, licking leftover gravy off the plate.

Zev ran to his bedroom. His comlink was pinging. “Lieutenant Veers,” he answered.

“Lieutenant-Commander Keldau. Remember me?”

Zev shut the door. “I was drunk but not _that_ drunk.”

The Mandalorian guffaw that followed wasn’t likely to be contained by such a thin door. “Trust me, _ad’ika_ , you were. Feeling well today?”

“Did I say anything stupid while I was… you know…”

“That you’d like to tie up my CO.”

“Oh, Goddesses.” It was a thank-you to them for not having let his tongue slip about wanting to flee the Empire.

“No worries, she wasn’t there to hear it. I was driving you home. And my lips are welded. You also told your father something nasty about waking you up.”

“I’ve never been a morning person.”

“More of a night creature, eh? Good, because I’m here to remind you we have an invitation to Jeskeith Manor tonight. Captain Jeskeith ordered me to take you there. Did you see the invitation?”

“Uhh.”

“No time to check your inbox, aye. To sum it up, dress uniform.”

“I don’t have it with me.”

“Fierfek. You’ll have to order one. Comm the garrison, they will look up your measures and have a replacement shipped to you in a couple hours. I’m dropping by to pick you up at seven local.”

“How do you know where I’m lodged?”

“I brought you home last night.”

“Yeah, but how do you know?”

“Captain Jeskeith told me.”

“How does _she_ know?”

“Try and ask her tonight, _ad’ika_. She likes folks who ask smart questions.”

 _And she sends them in front of a firing squad as soon as they utter something actually smart_. Yes, Zev knew the type. Commander Laibach would have had a blast at such a party.

“Aight,” Bertolt went on, “make yourself pretty and get your fancy rags. See you later, _ad’ika_.” The comm ended.

With the back of his hand, Zev touched the bristly stubble on his chin. He had a razor in his bag, but an obscure and irrational fear didn’t want him to touch it now that the suicide pill had disappeared. He didn’t want to try hanging himself with his belt, either, or go back to the shit-stained roof and jump under the gaze of the Star Destroyers in orbit.

“Lieutenant?” Petra knocked at the door. “Would you still like a glass of water?”

“Yes… yes, thanks.” He went to open the door, took the glass and drank it all in one freezing go.

“Isn’t that unhealthy for Humans?” Petra asked. “Your stomachs are so delicate when they’re digesting.”

“Please don’t make these kinds of observations about Humans. Warn your husband, too. They might get you in trouble.”

“But if I don’t and you fall sick? I knew a Zabrak lady who had a cousin who neglected to bring their Imperial captain lodger a flu medicine, the captain had to be hospitalised, and the Zabrak lady was sentenced to hard labour.”

“Good Goddesses…”

“She had it coming. We have responsibilities towards our troops. Are you sure you’re feeling fine?” She ran her hand over his face. Zev winced, then relaxed into the cool, smooth touch. He closed his eyes, which made Petra fret more, “Lieutenant?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Was she afraid for him, or for the prospect of being punished if he got sick or hurt or just capricious enough to complain at the competent authority over a trivial pretext? Whatever. Zev didn’t care. Except, it was nice that someone—who wasn’t his father—worried about him, wanted him to be all right.

“Petra?” he said in a soft, flat voice.

“Maybe some more tea—”

“Thank you. I know I’m a terrible man. But it’s so nice that you’ve treated me like a son. Or something like that.” Before she could reply, or turn the concerned feeling-up hand into a caress, Zev spun on his heels and retreated into the room, locking the door.

Petra didn’t spoil the moment by knocking and insisting that he told her if he was sick or needed anything.

Zev flopped face-down on the bed, breathing his own pre-shower smell on the pillow. He still wanted to die, but it would be a tragedy for the Mazepas if he did it here. Maybe for Loire as well. The ISB would hold them accountable, and on this Human-centric world it was as good as a death sentence; to add insult to the injury, they would accept it as part of the natural order of things. Goddesses, how selfish of him to consider jumping off that rooftop. It was the right and honourable thing for him to do—the one action left to him to save his conscience, the best action to hurt his father—but mercy for others forbade it to him. And this was the Empire’s true worst: turning an act of mercy and selflessness into a compromise with evil.

He went to the suitcase. Tears fogged up his eyesight but even tact alone was enough to tell him the suicide pill was still not there, and if it was, it didn’t matter. He found his music player and the pocket datapad on which he had loaded his books, and went back to bed. He wiped the tears from his right eye and opened it wide in front of the datapad; the scanner blinked green and the library files appeared on screen. Zev scrolled down, his finger hovered over _Human, All Too Human: The Philosphical Roots of Humanocentricism in Galactic Societies_ , gave an upward swipe, and tapped on a milquetoast censorship-approved crime novel. The animated cover illustration featured explosions and the story’s main characters in skimpy or tattered clothes, with the sole exception of the protagonist, an ISB heroine. The subtitle claimed this drivel was _based on a true story_.

“Yeah, sure.” Zev stuck the earbuds into his ears. _As if we’re not reading this for the interspecies sex scenes._ It wasn’t safe to even mutter this part.

The music player selected at random a Nar Shaddaan cover of _Blaster Packin’ Mama_ with triple the percussions and backing vocals as the original version.

The ideology behind the book was as shitty as the Empire could get, but whatever creative writing school the author had attended had taught them well; the subversive music countered the bad ideology, and together the book and the songs kept Zev cocooned in distraction until it was time to get dressed for the party.

He’d just put his boots on when his comlink beeped. “I’m parked in front of the gate,” Bertolt told him over the comm. “Red speeder.”

Buckling up his belt, Zev peered out of the window: in the dimming twilight he spotted a red speeder, its varnished colour and fashionable model incongruous in the surrounding shabbiness. “I’ll be there in a minute,” Zev assured him, and closed the comm.

Out in the corridor, the only sign of life in the flat was the din of the HoloNet terminal in the living room. Zev waited until he’d tiptoed to the door and opened it to shout a quick goodbye and goodnight to his host family, and didn’t wait for an answer.

Stark white lamps lit the stairway. Every crack and peeled off area in the wall plaster was cast in merciless relief. Zev’s trained eyes spotted the dark disc-shaped surveillance cameras at every landing, hung to the ceiling corner that allowed them full view of the stairs ahead.

He was glad to be outside. In the four paces that separated the apartment building gate and the red speeder, he was a free sentient.

The red speeder’s door on the passenger’s side opened at his approach. In the driver’s seat, Bertolt waved hello.

“Sorry I’m late.” Zev sat into the speeder and fastened the seatbelt. The air inside the vehicle was warmer than the outside temperature and had a slightly arousing scent of clean interiors, leather and a musky perfume Zev would have used himself if he’d bothered with cosmetics.

“Not a problem, I’ll make up for every minute lost. They didn’t get you a dress uniform, I see.”

“They said tomorrow morning at the earliest,” Zev lied.

 “Unbelievable. Well, _ad’ika_ ,” Bertolt had launched the speeder into the roadway and spun it ‘round in a U-turn, “how are you doing today?”

“Fine.”

“Have you been watching the HoloNet?”

They zipped past a traffic light the nanosecond before it went red. “No. Actually.”

“Ah.” Bertold swerved at impossibly tight angles in and out of a queue of slower speeders. The ludicrously and unnecessarily high speed on the control panel did not decrease. “Well, your _buir_ and you are all over it. Figured you would’ve avoided it. Not everyone likes celebrity.”

Zev’s heart raced, although it was in great part due to the very, very narrow space between the queue and the moving hovertram Bertolt had just sped through.

“If it helps,” Bertolt chattered on, “I don’t think it’ll last forever. The fact is, volunteer recruitment has fallen down a lot since Yavin. Several systems had to draft not just stormies but troops and techs of all kind. So now the Joint Chiefs hope the Hero of Hoth can float figures back to normal, which explains why they’re so big on advertising General Veers and how awesome the Imperial Army is—”

“Isn’t there a speed limit in this city or...?”

“Yeah, I think we’re within it. But don’t worry, there is no speed limit on the highway.”

“Oh, Goddesses.”

“So, once the hype dies out and a few more kids walk into the recruitment office, they’ll leave you and _buir_ Veers alone. You mind if I call him _buir_ Veers? Ah, by the way, _Ryloth Place_ has been renewed for another season; broadcasts start in a couple standard months, Coruscant prime time. Know what this means?”

“I don’t know, I don’t follow soap operas.” That one, though, had always starred very pretty Twi’lek actresses. Zev just didn’t care to admit aloud to a quasi-stranger that, once or twice, he’d looked up pictures of the female lead on the HoloNet and wanked to them.

“Well, Captain Jeskeith claims that’ll make people forget about the Hero of Hoth hype. Just wait until spoilers start leaking. That’s exactly what she said.”

“If spoilers start leaking, the people might forget there’s a war going on in the galaxy.” Ugh. No surprise such people acquiesced to the Imperial rule.

“Haha! Yes, Cap’n said that as well. And then something about the galaxy having the historical memory of a Gungan on spice. Not sure I got that joke.” Bertolt smiled at the quiet laughter that Zev hadn’t managed to stifle. “Well, good you did. You and her will have plenty to talk about over dinner.”

“Slow down, the traffic light—”

“No worries.” Bertolt swerved the speeder into a side street. At some point while he manoeuvred among other vehicles and pedestrians crossing the street, he started whistling the Colonel Gascon’s March. Zev shut his eyes and focussed on the music; the low rumbles of the engine, repulsors and steering system were less scary if he didn’t see what pointless and dangerous feat of driving was causing them.

“Lieutenant,” Bertolt said several minutes later, “you can open your eyes now. We’re out of town. Actually, if you haven’t fallen asleep, you should take a gander.”

“I’m awake, I’m—” Gone was the urban landscape. The highway spread out into the flat horizon in front of them, a strip of silver tarmac and white streetlights in the dark. An AT-AT could have crouched down in all comfort across it. Few speeders hovered on the roadway, and there was plenty of room for Bertolt’s overtaking manoeuvres to not terrify anymore.

As Zev’s eyes accustomed themselves to the night light, stars started popping into the sky. Many stars. Ships in the higher atmosphere. “Is that the orbital ring?”

“Clear moonless nights out of town are the best times to see it from dirtside, I hear.”

Zev felt shame at directing his own burst of childish excitement upon an Imperial military installation. He rerouted it to the terrain features: he couldn’t make out much of the landscape the highway crossed, but the streetlights let him discern jutting rock formations, shadows darker than the surrounding darkness, towering higher than any building in Kuat City. They blocked out the starlight like black holes. In places, rows of trees flanked the highway lane. The foliage was trimmed into torpedo-like shapes.

A faint blue light shone in the speeder. Bertolt had activated a holomap. “Nav says we’ll be there in twenty standard minutes. Make it ten, I say.” The cocky pilot’s grin on his face dissolved as fast as it had appeared. “Fierfek, the weather’s going to get worse overnight.”

Zev glanced at the map and noticed the small holographic rain cloud at the right bottom corner of the map. “I hope they hadn’t planned on a garden party,” he tried to be conversational.

“The thing is, the mansion is on an island in the middle of a lake. I’d hate to drive back through a water storm.”

“You can fly a TIE fighter into a battlefield and—”

“Ain’t the same thing, _ad’ika_.”

Zev cocked an eyebrow. “You can’t swim, can you?”

“A bacta tank malfunctioned while I was in it. I almost drowned. The medidroid fished out my sorry sputterin’ shebs in the nick of time. Been nervous ‘bout floating in liquids ever since.”

“Understandable.” Nice as this man was, he was an Imperial, so Zev didn’t spare much pity for him; he empathised more with the medidroid. He pictured him grumble about meatbags, their ridiculous respiratory apparatus and their stupid instinct to flail when they should remain calm and still and not waste oxygen, while he fought the mechanism of the faulty bacta tank. The droid at the Kuat City garrison medbay would’ve done all that.

The trees at the highway margins thickened. Bushes filled in the regular intervals between them. The artificial symmetry of the tree rows became beautiful to look at, with that undergrowth reclaiming its space. Zev had no idea if it was deliberate or the highway maintenance had forgotten to trim the plants; on Denon, it would have been deliberate. The bushes were in bloom, their cross-shaped flowers pale pink in the flash of the speeder’s lights.

“Do you mind,” Zev asked, “if I put the window down?”

Bertolt flinched on the seat, then laughed. “Oh, sorry, I forgot we aren’t in the vac. Sure thing, _ad’ika_ , let’s get a breath of fresh air.” He slowed the speeder’s run, pushed a button on the driving console and both windows went down. Wind whistled into the speeder. Zev slapped a hand on his cap and held it into place. A saccharine smell, mixed with the familiar scent of greenery, filled his nostrils. Kuat wasn’t too bad in places where the Empire had no people around. Zev silently prayed to the Goddesses they hadn’t used enslaved POW workforce to plant these trees. _Let them at least have been Separatist POWs back in the Clone Wars; at least the Republic Senate made sure their basic rights were respected_.

The speeder exited the highway into a smaller road, which became a bridge after a few klicks. Holding the cap tighter to his head, Zev peered out the window, squinting in the dark and the whipping wind: a floating pier, not a bridge. The lights shimmered on choppy tar-black water. Far off across the dark lake, the tiny lights of settlements and vehicles sketched out the coastline.

“Hey?” Bertolt called to him. “Mind staying in your seat? I’m sorry, but seeing you half out of the speeder like you’re ready to dive makes me a wee jittery. Y’know.”

Zev rolled his eyes but did as the pilot asked. The window went up leaving a few centimetres open. Up ahead, a brightly lit island of trees and marble had materialised in the centre of the watery night. “Is that it?”

Bertolt glanced at the holomap. “Aye. Jeskeith Manor. Cap’n showed me holos, but they were all taken in daylight.”

“Is it nicer by day?”

“Looks less like a brightly lit target for a bomber squadron drill, that’s certain.”

Zev cackled at the image of a bomber squadron levelling the island, the mansion and all the Imperials within it to a bald half-sunken rock. “Wait, what’s that?” He pointed to a sleek, chromed shuttle effecting a vertical landing somewhere behind the main building of the mansion.

“Sienar copying Nubian Design, I reckon,” Bertolt grumbled. “I don’t like their new pleasure craft series one bit. Bunch o’ dildos wrapped up in tin foil an’ fitted with a hyperdrive engine.”

“Do you know who’s on board?”

“Could be any Baron Tagge, or Cap’n’s _buirs_. Anyone of importance bar Lord Vader; I hear he prefers his own custom TIE fighter, and I don’t blame him.”

“ _Vader_ is here? Tonight?”

“Nah, he’s on Coruscant... I think. So I was told.”

Zev had never seen Vader in person, and doubted Bertolt had either. The silence that hung heavy inside the speeder for the remaining minutes of the drive, however, made it clear they had both heard the spooky stories. And Vader’s flagship was here, in the sky above their heads.

“Maybe it’s Admiral Piett, then,” Zev said while Bertolt slowed the speeder down, allowing a steward droid in livery-like white luminescent paint to scan their faces and code cylinders and clear them for parking. “On that shuttle. If it’s not Vader...”

“Dunno. According to scuttlebutt, Admiral Piett’s no Ozzel. Not a penny to his name. Then again, maybe he decided to splurge now that he’s got a rainbow jacket.”

They climbed off the parked speeder. Hoverlanterns lit the parking lot and the path that led out of it towards the mansion; Zev stood on his toes to examine the closest lantern. “Real wax candles! Or a very well-rendered hologram.” Hidden in the quaint, old-fashioned structure, there must be scanners, threat detectors, an alarm array. Perhaps even emergency detonators.

“Which one d’you think is the most expensive? ‘Cause that is the correct answer.” Bertolt shook his head and smiled at the folly of the universe. He started down the path and Zev followed him. On the way out of the parking lot, he counted over twenty speeders, very recent and expensive models as far as Zev’s limited interest in motors could discern. A whirr of incoming engines mixed with the din of music, until the latter became preponderant.

The path led to a patio that could have hosted a gravball match, with room for the audience stands included. People in all sorts of Imperial dress uniforms infested the area, chattering and clinking cocktail glasses that steward droids supplied back and forth on trays. Tall hedges enclosed the patio on three sides; they would be a good place for a shooter team to hide and open fire on the Imperials herded here. At the opposite side of the patio, there stood a roofed porch. It radiated light and sprightly string quartet music.

“Drinks, sir?”

Zev realised the steward droid was talking to him, proffering a glass of emerald wine. Bertolt had gone to greet a mixed group of Navy officers and Mandalorians in spit-polished armour adorned with the Imperial roundel.

“Thanks.” Zev took the glass. He wanted to spit it out at the first sip, though of course he didn’t do that; instead he rolled the glass in his palm, like he remembered his mother doing. His child self found that gesture very beautiful and it had been, more than once, the reason why he told his mother she was beautiful; to her the compliment came out of the blue, but she always laughed and gave him a hug.

“Excuse me, sir,” another droid approached him.

“No, thanks, I’ve already got—” Zev lifted his glass.

“Captain Jeskeith and her family would like to greet you. They await over there by the porch stairs.”

“Oh, okay. Uh, wait, do they really mean _me_? I’m Lieutenant Veers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please tell me you know who I am because I was scanned at the entrance.”

“Accurate, sir.”

“And not because you saw me on the HoloNet, right?”

“I am not programmed to be interested in HoloNet broadcasts, sir.”

“Good. We could be friends.”

“May I politely suggest you to have a non-alcoholic drink, sir? Our selection is wide and of the highest quality.” The droid bowed, and floated over to a tribe of grizzled officers whose glasses had gone mostly empty. Zev spotted General Shale among them, and fled towards the porch.

He found Ninon Jeskeith. Despite the dress uniform, something in her mien reminded Zev of a Naboo queen. Then he saw the two middle-aged women standing next to her: their make-up and hairdo were sober, the dresses sleek and simple in their design, but the way the ladies occupied volume carried something regal. Zev wondered how Queen Amidala, back in the days, had had no trouble passing for a simple handmaiden; nobility was more blatant than a holoposter.

He bowed his head. It came as such an obvious gesture to perform in front of these ladies, that it didn’t feel like the intellectual prostitution it was. “Captain Jeskeith, madams, good evening.”

“Lieutenant Zevulon Veers!” said the lady who physically resembled Ninon the most. “We are delighted that you accepted our daughter’s invitation.”

“Ninon outranks him, my dear Jaclina,” said the other woman. “An invitation from her is an order to him; of course he would not refuse it!” She regarded Zev with a smile that filled him with a rush of genuine self-satisfaction. “General Veers educated you well, boy.”

The self-satisfaction vaporised. “It was the naval academy on Prefsbelt, actually,” Zev corrected her in a flat tone.

“You are a Prefsbelt alumnus? Why, just like my brother! Were you introduced to him? Moff Thichis Kuras?”

Zev shook his head. The sector’s governor. Lesser nobility, delicate posting, a diplomat rather than a durasteel-fisted terrorist in the Tarkin fashion.

“You need to meet him. You could trade stories all night.”

“Miep, please,” Jaclina Jeskeith interrupted her wife, “you’re intimidating the poor boy.”

Zev blinked, tried to smile, to appear at ease, to unsee ISD-grade turbolaser bolts Base-Delta-Zeroing this island. He held the wine glass with both hands over his stomach, in an attempt to keep them from trembling.

“Mothers,” Ninon spoke up, “do you mind if I and Lieutenant Veers—”

“One last thing. Camera!” Jaclina gestured at a camera droid that hovered by them. The three women stood still and straight in pose; they looked so beautiful and commanding that Zev could not bring himself to slouch out of spite.

The camera droid took a holo. “ _Processing complete_ ,” it said. “ _Posting to main social HoloNet pages of Jeskeith Aerospace is now in progress. Posting complete_.” It hovered away.

Zev sleepwalked through a few formal greetings. The ladies were gone but not Ninon. Captain Jeskeith. She minced at his side and had acquired a glass of emerald wine. It was his; his hands were empty.

“You aren’t a heavy drinker anyway,” she was saying. He’d missed the whole start of the conversation. “This much I have learned about you.”

“Oh. Last night. I was embarrassing, I know.”

She waved a hand. “I will need to deal with such... instances. I can’t imagine my crew staying sober and chaste during shore leave, can I?”

Zev’s brow furrowed. “I am not part of your crew.” She hadn’t meant to include him, of course. He’d just assumed, misinterpreted. So why did the realisation hurt him?

Jeskeith stopped. They were in front of a buffet table. Full glasses were lined up on the immaculate table cloth. “You could be if you wanted.” Jeskeith’s hand danced over the glasses. “Will Reythan berry juice do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He took the glass of amber-coloured liquid she passed him.

“We are short of a loyalty officer. And I know you are currently without a posting.”

Zev stared at her, holding her hand together with the Reythan berry juice glass. “I’m not a brilliant officer, you know. The good soldier is my father.”

Jeskeith held his stare. “You may have forgotten, but I told you last night already: I’m interested in _you_.”

He remembered. It came back in  flash and a cold shiver. A kindred spirit reaching out to him. Like Velita. He couldn’t ignore its calling this time. There would not be another chance. “Thanks, Captain. I would be honoured to serve on the... under you, ma’am.”

Jeskeith smiled. Her hand slipped out of his hold. “My ship is the ISD _Bulwark_. You’ll like her. My parents allowed me to offer input during her construction, and I was granted a remarkable freedom in handpicking my crew. As you have surely noticed.”

Zev nodded. Freedom to handpick Rebel sympathisers hiding in plain sight. Her own social status and family money shielding her from suspicion. The Kuati military-industrial complex had no reason to side with the Rebellion, so why smell a bloodrat about a scion of it? The local Moff’s niece, of all people?

Jeskeith’s eyes darted away from Zev. He feared he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Excuse me,” Jeskeith said, “I have to play the charming host for some time. Enjoy the party.”

Sipping his drink, he threw glances at her as she glided into the throng of guests, watching her the way he’d been trained to watch suspects who mustn’t know they had COMPNOR eyes on them.

 _May the Force protect you, Ninon_. But the Force wasn’t enough; it had protected neither the Jedi at the time of Order 66, nor the Guardians of the Whills on Jedha. He made to turn and retreat to the lakeside. Something hit him in the stomach and he slipped backwards, bumping his lower back against the table. Glasses clinked ominously.

A child pouted at him. She was wearing a dark velvety dress and a shiny ice-blue pendant.

“Didn’t your mom teach you to watch your step, missus?” Zev said, the surly little face making him pout back.

“My mom taught me how to graph linear inequalities and reprogram protocol droids, and I’m only in fourth grade.” The girl planted her hands on her hips and peered at his rank badge. Her pendant flickered as if an inner, haughty eye inside it was staring him up and judging him. “You are a lieutenant and you don’t even know how to properly address a lady.”

“Is this conversation really happening?”

The girl stuck her tongue out at him, lunged to grab a glass of berry juice, whirled on her varnished black shoes and trotted off.

Zev gritted his teeth. _Don’t get smug, you little shit. I know how to reprogram a fucking KX droid if I have to_.

He felt watched, a nagging bug bite sensation that made his skin crawl and sweat pop on his cap-constricted brow. A wall of uniforms had enclosed him, interspersed with fancy civilian dresses like blooming flowers in a barbed wire fence, and so many gloved hands on cocktail glasses. He avoided looking at the faces that were looking at him, and left the non-alcoholic drinks table at the quickest acceptable pace before it qualified as a run.

He stalked up to the porch. Circular hovertables with decorative flowers and glinting silverware lay waiting for the guests, who were trickling towards their seats. Zev marched to the far end of the porch; further ahead down the few steps, another hoverlantern-lit pathway wound into the dark garden.

He watched the first hoverlantern he walked past, spotted the little white light of the microcamera winking at his passage. _We can see you always, Lieutenant, so it’s a-okay for you to take a stroll in the garden. Enjoy the evening_.

A chilly gust shook the trees. The leaves rattled rather than rustled; were they even organic? It wouldn’t have surprised Zev if they weren’t. He crossed his arms over his chest and hugged himself against the wind. _The weather’s going to get worse_. Was the goddess Yllnaten on this planet, too? Had she fled so far away from her sisters this time? Perhaps she was here because he was here, gathering a storm for him.

He heard the water before he saw it. Waves that splashed, lazy and slow, on a strip of pebbly shore, no wider than two metres. An hoverlantern floated above Zev’s head and farther off over the black water, bringing the ripples on the water into a dim, ghostly view. The camera was pointed on his face, he knew. It must have a microphone, too. He could say the prayer in Hrönir but the language was in the database of any common protocol droid. Well, if anyone asked afterwards he’d make up some banthashit about it being a wish of good fortune upon Captain Jeskeith in war. Soldiers always needed good fortune.

Zev stepped into the water up to his ankles, the military boots insulating his feet. Holding up the glass and tilting it so the liquid poured out into the water, he recited the blessing. His voice started out quieter than the waves and rose verse by verse, his accent clear, the ancient language stoking warm courage inside him, embers of a fire that was not extinguished yet.

There wasn’t enough light, the hoverlantern being too far, to see if the end of the prayer coincided with the last drops trickling out of the glass, as per the proper offering etiquette; it was enough anyway. Had to be enough. The alternative was nothing. Yllnaten better listen, for once.

The trepid sliver of doubt in him grew, heavy and deep-set in his chest, a mynock chewing the blood vessels of his heart as it beat faster. All of this was futile. He could help no one. Not even by dying. The Empire would paste his face on a model’s body—picking a guy with a better physique than his own—and copy it on propaganda holos alongside General Veers. He was theirs forever. Neither Three Goddesses nor the Force could help.

He flung the glass at the hoverlantern, which dodged it and floated back to its place.

Zev stepped out of the water, tore his boots off and flopped to lie down on the cold gravel.

Beautiful starry sky, though; swathes of it had become clouded, but plenty of galaxy and orbital ring were still shining up in the great black yonder. You could see Denon from here, though Zev had no idea how to find the star without a navigational chart. The wind whistled through the trees and carried his cap away into the water.

It would have been nice to lie here and surrender to the cold. Let the dark stormy water engulf his body. But he couldn’t do it. Jeskeith counted on him, wanted him on her ship—the _Bulwark_ , the name had to be significant, a bulwark for likeminded people, for dissenters. He mustn’t drift away, now that he’d found what he had always wanted. And if he died here and now, there would be an investigation and the thought police would get to Jeskeith, pry around, expose her plan. It would be all his fault.

“Shit,” he muttered. Rebel and Imperials alike, military and civilians, couldn’t they all just leave him in charge of his own life and death? Was it so much to ask? At least that one bit of freedom and self-determination? Yes, it was. Whatever deity ruled the galaxy and all creatures’ fates disapproved of suicide; it was a frequent attitude in several cultures and religions. The supreme goddess-matron in the Gamorrean traditional faith, for example—Gamorreans accepted ritual suicide for defeated warriors but it was taboo for women, if the author of that academic article Zev had read a while ago wasn’t making prejudiced crap up. Still, consider this: a snotty, axe-crazy Gamorrean goddess ruling over the galaxy. Zev laughed.

Boomed laughter, in fact. It blared over the silent lake, as if it were the only Human noise on this planet. That made Zev laugh louder, kick his bootless feet into the air and roll on the gravel, until his spleen ached. The hilarity sputtered off, leaving him a pleasant, post-coital sort of empty. Thinking was as out of the question as was standing up and performing any kind of physical activity.

He closed his eyes. It was doubtful sleep would come on such a cold and hard surface, but his circadian clock had not yet adjusted to this planet’s day-night cycle. And the splash-splash of the water was so near, hypnotic. Zev slipped into a drowse.

Minutes or hours later, light burned on his face and pulled him out of sleep. A mechanical voice broke through the wind and water silence, “ _Lieutenant Veers, please return to the party_.”

Zev dragged his upper body to sit up. His right hand held onto a stone. His body had dug a valley in the gravel, where every part of him had fitted well; now everything screamed in ache. His nose was clogged. “What?”, he drawled. Even his throat was sore. On top of it all, he was chilled to the bone and shaking.

The hoverlantern moved a bit away from his face. “ _Dinner is about to begin. You may want to immediately return to the party area. The keynote address is being delivered by General Shale and General Veers instead of Admiral Piett, as per the original programme_.”

Zev gaped at the hoverlantern. Snot began oozing out of his nostrils, the wind cooled it off, and he sniffed it up.

“ _It is highly recommended that you are a visible part of the audience during your father’s inspirational speech. In case you are not present, we will be happy to edit your likenesses into the footage, in compliance with orders from the Ministry of Information—_ ”

The stone hit the hoverlantern, smashed the glass case and sent the damn thing hurtling into the water.

Zev massaged his cold feet, grabbed his boots and pulled them on. The wind had risen and with it the waves; they were lapping at his boots. Lightning, distant but closer than whatever distance Zev expected, cast a ghostly white glow over the jagged coastline. Thunder rumbled along.

Zev held back a sneeze, hurriedly whispered the formal thanksgiving words in Hrönir, let the sneeze loose, and hauled himself to his feet. The retreat up the path was slow; he would stop every dozen of steps, watch the storm brew, listen to the thunder and the whoosh of the wind, start walking again only when the cold became too much to bear—which it did in a matter of minutes.

He heard the applause before he was even in sight of the porch. He’d missed the speech, thank the Goddesses. He struck out at a faster pace and made it back to the porch. Pure physical joy flooded his body at being in a warmer place, although the wind was making the tablecloths flap like banners. Scraps of guests’ small talk informed him the speech had just been delivered. “...his action speaks louder than words anyway...”

Zev sneezed again.

“ _Ad’ika_! Where’d you go?” Bertolt strode to him. He had a cocktail glass in each hand and offered Zev one, at which Zev shook his head.

“I went for a walk.” He sniffed. “It’s getting a bit windy out there.”

Bertolt’s face fell. He must be imagining storms worse than Kamino. “Well, ain’t like we were hoping against hope.”

 _Oh, but you were!_ Zev managed not to laugh, but couldn’t hide a smirk of ridicule and compassion. “Is it dinner time yet? I’m starving.”

Bertolt gestured at him to follow, and led him to a table. He introduced the dozen officers sitting there (Zev didn’t need any introduction, for they all had watched the HoloNet News) as _Bulwark_ crew. Zev took the last remaining free seat. “Is the captain not dining with us?” he asked.

“ _Buirs_ got her a place at the VIP table. Your old man’s there too.”

“Ah.”

“Veers,” said one Lieutenant-Commander Lightchaser, making a little awe-struck pause after she spoke his surname, “so, what is your role going to be on our ship?”

She was a woman, officer or not, and a beautiful one. Zev ran a self-conscious hand over his windswept hair. “Loyalty officer, apparently.”

Everyone at the table fell silent for a heartbeat.

“It makes sense,” said Lightchaser. “We didn’t have one until now.”

“It is mandatory to appoint a loyalty officer as soon as the ship’s captain is appointed,” Zev recited the letter of the law. “And very clearly the _Bulwark_ already has a captain.” Jeskeith had balls of durasteel. Ignoring the rule so blatantly, taking advantage of her privileged position.

Lightchaser grimaced and the table shook, as if someone had kicked her under it.

Zev cleared his itching throat. Fuck, he’d scared them. They thought he was a real Imperial, a real thought policeman. And he had no idea what to say to repair the damage.

A big hand pawed his shoulder. “The Kuati do things in their own way,” said Bertolt, “but it’s likely the last such irregularity you’ll see from Cap’n Jeskeith. I reckon she wants you in ‘cause you’re this good at making us stick to the rules.”

“I will just do my duty.” The flattery touched him. A lonely young boy inside him beamed at the basic gratification of receiving praise. Disgusting. His face crumpled. To distract himself, he turned to the nearest server droid. “Sorry, could you bring a bottle of red? Alderaani, if possible.”

“Of course, sir,” said the droid, and glided off.

A lieutenant named Liatiko—communication specialist, if Zev hadn’t mixed her up with the officer sitting next to her—laughed, most of the nervous tremor out of her voice. “Don’t we have enough booze already?” She pointed a finger at the four bottles at the centre of the table.

“We’re proper Navy men,” Zev said quietly. He turned to the one Army captain among them. “No offence, Strobestock.” He’d heard this guy’s name before; his father was a colonel from the Tapani sector, whose conventionally attractive face and bloated heroics had sometimes graced the HoloNet.

Strobestock Junior smiled. “None taken, Veers.”

“Therefore,” Zev continued, “this booze is definitely not enough.”

When the Alderaani red arrived, the first toast was to Lieutenant Veers. Doubtlessly realising it was being drunk by Imperials, the wine packed a gut punch that nearly knocked Zev off the chair. On the plus side, it alleviated the throat soreness.

A swarm of server droids started bringing the appetiser: gratinéed lake mussels. The mussels were thrice as small as the smallest edible clam Zev had ever seen on Denon, and in his honest opinion the breadcrumb crust was overcooked. Not even a crumb remained on the platter, however, and the bottle of white wine went empty in one round.

“Only fair,” was Lieutenant Liatiko’s comment. “White is supposed to go with fish.”

“Do any of you know what is up next?” Zev asked.

Strobestock answered with a big smile, “Meat dumplings, perfect for the Alderaani red. The filling is Vilhonan deer, from my family’s own hunting reserve as a matter of fact! If it’s not good you are at liberty to use me as a complaint desk, haha.”

“Perfect for the Alderaani red, huh.” Strange, Zev had intended to just think that. Instead, he muttered it aloud. “Establishing a link of sympathy between Tapani nobility and Alderaanian royalty. Clever, if rather unsubtle.” He might as well turn it into an advice, so he looked Strobestock dead in the eye. The affable smile had frozen onto the young captain’s face. “In the future, do try to be more mindful of unfortunate implications, okay?”

Strobestock blinked out of the terror. “I will. Yes, sir—Lieutenant.” He took the Alderaani red and resumed his role of friendly aristocrat. “Would someone else like a glass?”

The wine in the bottle was halved by the time the meat dumpling arrived. They were as big as Zev’s fist, the dough had the consistency of a bread loaf’s soft part, and the mincemeat inside was hotter than a star. There was pepper in the mix, and something vegetable Zev couldn’t identify.

“Something wrong, Veers?” This was Commander Erchie, if Zev had correctly understood her name, a gunnery officer. “You made a face like you’ve bitten on a jiqui fruit peel.”

Zev picked the vegetable out of the mincemeat with the prongs of his fork. “I was just wondering, if someone for any reason cannot eat this food, for sanitary or cultural reasons—have they even considered the option?”

Lightchaser made an affirmative noise as she swallowed a mouthful of dumpling. “I’m dead intolerant to gluten, so it was the first thing I asked the droids. It turns out the organisers had access to all the guests’ records, including medical history, to ensure nobody gets poisoned.”

“ _Accidentally_ poisoned?” asked a medical officer guy whose name Zev had forgotten.

“Well,” Strobestock spoke up, “Lady Juno and Moff Juno were supposed to attend this reception, too, so we can safely assume Lady Jeskeith was _expecting_ at least one assassination attempt.”

The medical officer laughed. “Oh, Sithspit. Why aren’t they here anyway?”

“They got stuck on Hesperidium. The local police fussed a lot about Lady Juno’s latest attempt to her husband’s life and they have to sort out the legal issue before they’re allowed to leave.”

“Can the _Hesperidium police_ really do that?”

Strobestock shrugged. “My best guess is, they’re trying to reassert an itty bit of authority. The High Court of Justice at Coruscant will put them back in their place as soon as they stop laughing.”

“But for the time being,” Zev said in a voice so low Strobestock and the medical officer didn’t hear him and kept chattering away to each other, “they are detaining an Imperial Moff and his wife.”The galaxy was not beyond salvation, was what these people were trying to tell him. They were replenishing his hope.

The wine gave his silent happiness a sleepy slant. A smile quirked up the corner of his mouth and a senseless laughter threatened to escape him at random moments. Zev went through the rest of the dinner barely registering what he was eating. Sometime after the droids took away the empty dumpling plates, he caught sight of Captain Sarkli walking somewhere with Lieutenant Kijé in tow; she had cut her hair. They caught sight of him, too, but didn’t get near; Sarkli winked at him, Kijé flipped up a portable holocamera, tapped on it to take a picture, then glared at Zev and stuck the tip of her tongue out. Then she ran to catch up with Sarkli.

“Isn’t that Admiral Piett?” asked Lightchaser, peering behind Zev’s seat. “That short guy over there with Vice-Admiral Sloane?”

“Is he short and pale?” echoed Liatiko.

“Space-pasty.”

“Yep, that’s him.”

“He’s late.”

“He was supposed to deliver the speech tonight.” Strobestock wrinkled his nose, then smiled at Zev. “I am not implying your father’s speech was bad, of course—”

“Sure, whatever.” Zev yawned into his napkin.

“It’s an appalling lack of respect towards the hosts,” Strobestock concluded, with as much gravity as if he were condemning a war crime.

“Lord Vader commed him at the last moment,” someone else explained. Despite his obfuscated state, Zev had learned to recognise the voice. Commander Erchie. “I guess he couldn’t put that call on hold.”

“How do you know?”

“Heard someone say that when I went to the bathroom.”

Laughter.

Zev’s eyes wandered to the night outside the porch. Glass panes now enclosed the dinner room, shielding it from the rain rivulets that flowed on the glass and the wind that shook it. No gale noise was audible over the music and the hubbub of conversation; the panes must be soundproof. _Who wants to bet they’re blast-proof too?_ Nobody replied. He hadn’t spoken, only thought. All thinking, no action—Zevulon Veers in a nutshell. The tragedy of the intellectual at war. Of a certain type of intellectual. The coward who lacked the guts to oppose evil and thus made up well-worded excuses.

He blew his nose on the napkin and his nose stayed clogged; not totally clogged, but enough to reduce the oxygen afflux to his brain and worsen the sleepiness.

“Are you all right, _ad’ika_? Lieutenant?”

Zev’s head snapped up from where it had dropped on his chest. “Hmm. Yes. I think I need—” He cleared his throat. “—some caf.” He looked around at the table and saw no one sitting at it except for Bertolt and himself. “Where is everyone?”

“The ballroom inside.”

“Ballroom?” The music had ceased, he noticed.

“Aye. A few rounds of Kuati waltz, then it’s desserts and sherry time. Sorry...” Bertolt touched Zev’s forehead. “Bloody _haran_! Did you skinny-dip into the lake?”

“No. The hoverlanterns were watching me.”

“I’ll go find Yajir. Wait here.”

“Who?”

“The medical captain. That blond chap next to Strobestock. They’re lovers, by the way. We all pretend not to know. Wait here, okay?”

“Are you being so kind to me because my name is Veers or because we are shipmates?”

Bertolt gave him a light slap on the cheek, rose and disappeared inside.

The dinner area was mostly empty. Zev dragged himself to his feet, still cold inside his boots. He wobbled to the ballroom. It was a crowded place, the roof gilded and about twenty metres high, festooned with Imperial banners and heraldic emblems in sharp snowflake-like geometries. At the far end of the ballroom, past the guests that flitted in and out of his field of vision, lay another buffet table, manned by the usual droids and laden with glasses and sorbet cups.

On a podium nearby, an all-Human orchestra struck up a slow waltz. Not far from the podium stood a tall officer in the moss green colour of Army dress uniforms, his back turned to Zev, and something in the way he stood reminded him of his father.

“Lieutenant!”

Zev tried to pull himself to attention. Damn, his back and shoulders ached. It must have been the cold and hard gravel. “Captain Jeskeith, ma’am. Nice to see you again.”

“Have you enjoyed the meal?” Jeskeith asked. “The table I was confined to offered a selection of every single piece of high cuisine I’ve never liked. At least when I was a child I was brave enough to use the spoon as a catapult and fling the stuff around in protest.”

“I, for one, think we should be grateful for—”

“—for not going starving, there are millions of less privileged sentients who would kill, and who join the Rebellion, to feast on what we have in our plates, and so on.” Jeskeith brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear. _Cute_. Zev felt bad for reducing his saviour to a cute female sentient. “My parents and my nanny would intimidate me into silence and proper eating with that emotional blackmail all the time.”

“So did my mother.” Zev’s voice was flat. It was the clogged nose’s fault, too. “Its effect has become somewhat lost on me, since my former CO used it to taunt the detainees he was force-feeding.”

“Did it work?”

“On a few of them. They were already very weakened, physically and mentally. He... he wanted to demonstrate to me and a couple other greenhorns how you can get a subject to believe whatever you want them to believe. If you break them in the right places.”

“Oh, so the point was not information extraction?”

Zev shot her a sideways glance. Jeskeith didn’t seem disgusted or upset; she stood in her pristine bone-grey dress uniform, arms behind her back, polite interest in her dark eyes. _She’s brave. Or deludes herself that she’s brave, because despite her training she has no idea how much worse reality is. She needs to know the worst and be prepared for it_.

“It was not,” Zev said. “Not necessarily. Torture and information extraction are two distinct things. Sometimes overlapping but still distinct. The latter is a negotiation, sort of; one where you must be prepared to get information you don’t like, or accept your prisoner doesn’t have the information you need, or piece together the information from a lot of clues and hints and other sources of knowledge, thorough analysis—you know, boring detective work. Often, you cannot afford to fully desentientise your detainee. The former, torture... well, you’re taking a sentient, breaking them, and reassembling them as your convenience or your cruelty dictates.” He shrugged. “There’s something about it that appeals to the depth of Human psychology. If you’re interested, I recommend reading the third volume of _On The Punitive Humanity_ , by Mychal Fouka’ylya; it delves into psychological and psychiatric data, sociology and cultural differences—the actual science and philosophy, not just the short and oversimplified version I’m giving you now off the top of my head.”

“It’s useful knowledge, though. Please carry on, Lieutenant.”

“The catch with torture is, it matches Imperial ideology more closely than information extraction. Or military efficiency, administrative efficiency or pretty much any and all government best practice.”

Jeskeith’s expression hardened.

“Taking the old galaxy, the corrupted and anarchy-ridden old universe of the Republic, breaking it and remoulding it into something heroic and efficient and strong, a safe, secure and well-policed state, albeit through a modicum of necessary evil that will, conveniently, always be shouldered by the oppressed, the weakest subjects, and whomever the state labels as enemy—sentients worth enslaving or slaughtering anyway... Have you ever read _The Iron Planet_? The dystopian novel?”

“No.”

“It was published two hundred standard years ago. It tells the story of a failed revolt on a fictional totalitarian world that is heavily implied to be Coruscant, much earlier in its history. Towards the finale, one of the characters asks another what the planetary core is made of. This guy answers, well, obviously it’s molten iron. But no, replies the other: _At the core of the Iron Planet, there is a durasteel-heeled boot crushing a sentient’s face_.”

Jeskeith’s well-trimmed eyebrows shot up. Recognition. Agreement. Comprehensibly, also unease.

“My former CO, Commander Laibach—he broke Agent ISB-021. The defector who leaked the data about the Geonosis genocide to the Rebels, you know?”

“Of course I do.”

“What nobody ever told you is, the reason they put him through deadly enhanced interrogation was not intel. COMPNOR already knew everything about how Fulcrum agents operate—better than him, even. They knew tricks other Fulcrums had employed that he was unaware of.” Zev realised he was smiling. Awful topics notwithstanding, this newfound freedom to talk and to express intelligent thought was exciting. He was also shivering and sweating under his uniform. “They simply wanted to break him. That was the point. Hammer it home that he belonged to the Empire, and the Empire had the power to crush him.”

“Is it true that when Kallus deserted for good, he copied all the data on an external memory, put it in a suitcase and just... walked away?” Jeskeith’s attempt at sounding casual was valiant, but Zev picked up the strain and stiffness in her tone.

“Yes, it took Admiral Konstantine two standard days to figure out what had happened. Anyway, now consider the destruction of Alderaan. It is state terrorism, and it is torture—” Zev sneezed, once, twice, thrice. The napkin was still hanging from his collar, he’d forgotten to leave it at the table; he wiped his nose.

The music paused and the couples at the centre of the ballroom started scrambling to switch partners.

“Do you believe the Empire in its present condition is corrupted, too, Lieutenant?”

Zev stared her in the eye. “It is.”

“Plagued by gerontocracy and wild capitalism hiding behind a veneer of military honour?”

“Yes.” Goddesses, it was beautiful to hear a woman speak those words. She could seem beautiful even in that Imperial garb.

“Misled, misfiring?”

“That’s an effective way of wording it.”

“The people gathered here tonight, including my parents... They all are part of the problem, aren’t they?”

Zev nodded.

Jeskeith fell silent, her eyes half-closed, intense. “We should continue this discussion sometime on the _Bulwark_ ,” she said.

Zev let out a brief, voiceless laugh. This had not been a discussion, it had been a monologue. A test for him, maybe?

“You are a most instructive person, Lieutenant. I’m glad someone as free-thinking as you is my loyalty officer.”

He grinned. He had passed the test. “Thank you, Captain. It means the galaxy to me.” He bowed.

She went to take by the arm one of the few dancers left without a partner.

Someone drew Zev’s attention like a tractor beam towards the edge of the dance floor. The tall officer again. His father. He could see his face now, radiant with a smile, and the smile was directed at a woman holding his arm.

An AT-AT’s paw began thumping in place of Zev’s heart.

The woman was drop-dead gorgeous, midnight black-haired, midnight black-robed. Her hair was waist-long and curly, held back by a silver headband. The dress had a wide skirt ending under the knee, showing off perfect calves that led up to a perfect ass.

His father was smiling at her. Zev had never seen him smile so brightly—not after mom had died.

 _Traitor_. He felt dirty, hyperaware of the snot filling his nostrils and of his throat peeling itself raw.

Veers and the woman both laughed. Alive and happy, while Zev’s mother was dead and had been unhappy because of Veers—Zev was little but he had noticed, he remembered, he would never forgive. The Goddesses wouldn’t, either. By showing up several days late for mom’s funeral, Veers had fucked up the mourning rituals. Mom couldn’t have a proper burial; her body had been interred but her soul was still bound in marriage to Veers’.  A prisoner even after death. And here he was, ready to break the vow, oblivious that he still had one.

They stopped laughing. Zev saw Veers’ mouth move, then the woman’s, their eyes lost in each other’s. In a haze of perception, like sound from another room, Zev sensed his body swaying. There was nowhere to sit and he limped backwards, bumping into someone.

He gritted his teeth to avoid apologising.

A child’s voice dripped xenoboric acid, “Of course it is you again.”

“I could say the same,” Zev retorted. The same little girl as before at the non-alcoholic drinks buffet. She had acquired a little boy companion, sucking his thumb behind her.

“I was keeping an eye on you,” the little girl said. “Why are you staring at my mom?”

“Who?” Now that Zev thought about it, the little girl here and the woman with Veers had the same hair. And the little boy too.

“Stay away from her, or I’m calling security on you!” She turned, in a softer voice, to the boy, “Let’s go, Hwan.” The boy shot Zev a big-eyed look, without hostility, and scampered off after his sister.

They reached the woman in the midnight-black dress and Veers. Smiles, hugs. Dear Goddesses, the woman was beautiful when she smiled. Veers crouched in front of the little boy.

The music began playing. Dancing couple glided in and out of Zev’s field of vision. He kept his stare aimed at the spot where Veers and those other people stood. The couples were indistinct brush strokes of colour. When they moved away, Veers was standing again, holding up the boy in his arms. The boy was giggling, his arms latched around Veers’ neck.

A miniature mass shadow generator imploded Zev’s innards, leaving crunched hollowness and a sick, furious pulse in its wake, a shaken and fractured core.

Ridiculous, bloody ridiculous. He had nothing to be jealous of. He’d long since known Veers would have replaced him, had he had the chance. Had he forced mom to give him another child. Maybe it would have made things better for Zev. When he joined Saw Gerrera’s militia, he’d often fantasised, he would go by mom’s beautiful surname: Zev Dawnfire. Yet...

Zev hated himself even more than he hated Veers, for he still craved to be that giggly, happy boy in his father’s arms and there was no political reasoning the disgusting, love-yearning toddler inside him would listen to.

 _It’s his fault_. General Veers’ fault, the Butcher of Hoth’s fault. He had abandoned and replaced his son. His fault. _At the core there is a durasteel-heeled boot crushing a sentient’s face_ —well, okay, you damn better be on the business end of the boot. There would be Imperials like Lieutenant Zevulon Veers or Velita Lully or Ninon Jeskeith, who had some good in them and could be changed for the best. Others could only be broken. Iron Max Veers should only be broken.

Still deep in feverish thought, Zev ambled towards Veers and the woman in midnight-black and her odious brats.

“ _Ad’ika_! Hey!”

As Zev cut through the dance floor, Bertolt’s jovial call drowned in the music. Couples bumped against Zev, told him to watch his step, he ignored them.

Veers did not look up to his own son until Zev got close. The woman and the children saw him and all stopped smiling.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific content warnings for this chapter: **emotional abuse** and **cigarette burns**. Read with caution.
> 
> Special shout-out to Bunn1cula for letting me borrow her OC Ailsa. You can read more of her and her backstory with Jerjerrod [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/785448).

Veers lay on his back, arms and legs spread open, in his bed at home on Denon. It was easy to tell where he was because his hands were not dangling over the edge of the mattress, which they did on the smaller bed of his quarters on the _Executor_.

He smiled without opening his eyes. He hadn’t had the heart to sleep there after Eli had died; therefore, if he was in this bed, she must be still here. In answer to his thoughts, a pair of soft palms caressed his abs. He was naked. _So good..._

“He’s awake.” Just hearing her soft laughter was better than a kiss.

Another familiar voice added, “Indeed he is.”

Veers cracked his eyes open and found Piett’s face hovering centimetres from his. “He’s such a poor liar.” Piett kissed his cheek and shifted away.

Veers could see her now. Rosy sunburned smiling face and bland comfortable house clothes—cycling shorts and a t-shirt of a pop-punk band that was popular when they were teenagers.

“You can read him like a datapad even while he sleeps,” Eliana said. “Don’t I know.” She tilted her head forward and met Piett in a kiss above her husband’s body. _Their_ husband. A deep, slow kiss, with tongues rolling over each other and quiet wet noises.

Veers shivered, happiness and desire welling up in him. He scooped up Piett and Eliana in his arms, one on each side. Soft Denoni-spun cotton and a heavier woollen robe rubbed in the crooks of his elbows. Short and long hair brushed against the base of his neck. Lips traced twin paths along his clavicles, then each followed the lines of a different scar. He moaned as the kisses trailed downwards. His hands held onto a warm dangling breast on one side, onto an angular protruding shoulder bone on the other. Their smells mixed in his nostrils; cheap aftershave perfume and the incense Eli burned every new moon to her goddesses.

His moans grew louder as one pair of lips teased the sides of his upper ribs, the other suckled on his nipple. His lower abdomen was beginning to tense, and he wanted to dissolve like a planet swallowed into a supernova into the heat of the two bodies that surrounded and shielded him.

He moaned so loud that he woke up.

His eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings. Unknown, unfamiliar, no Eliana, no Piett. Neither home nor the _Executor_. He sprang up to sit, pulse racing, terror chilling his flesh inside out. Reality shuffled back into place around him. He was on Kuat, in a suite bedroom, on shore leave. Eli was dead, Piett had dumped him for a prostitute.

He forced himself to hold a deep breath and exhaled it with a moan.

In his rude awakening, he’d kicked the bedcovers down. That allowed him a humiliating view of the bulge in his pants. Maybe, if he acted on the dream scene while it was fresh—no. “Stars, _no_ ,” Veers growled a warning to himself.

The chrono on the nightstand projected a hologram of the hour in IST and local times. Sitting up to read it triggered a heavy-set ache above his cheekbones; he pressed the meat of his hand to his forehead.

The ache sharpened, a drill boring through his skull. Such stress migraine had pestered him for months after Eli’s death. But those migraines had been worse. At least with this one, he didn’t have too much trouble getting to his feet and shambling to the bathroom. A cold shower washed away both the headache and the hard-on.

Clean underwear and a jogging suit awaited him in a basket by the shower. He stood trembling and dripping water on the absorbing mat, a towel wrapped around his shoulders; his foot shot up and kicked the basket. The basket ricocheted against the wall, clothes scattered to the floor, and his big toe reported a bearable pain.

To the ninth hell with a relaxing few hours of jogging in the park. All of Kuat City would gather ‘round and nag the Hero of Hoth for holoselfies, autographs on their Army-licensed merch, and a grab to his crotch if they got near enough. If he gripped their wrist and broke it, they would thank him for the souvenir.

His toe left a thin blood trail from the bathroom to the bedroom, but the bleeding had stopped by the time he sat on the unmade bed. The bleeding would always stop and the hurt fade. Losing Piett was nothing he wasn’t used to. Nothing.

He pulled the towel to his face and wept into it.

When the crisis passed, he tried to recall the last time he’d resorted to that coping mechanism. It had been a while. After the Kolene riot and the subsequent  nightmares in which Eliana was a civilian casualty caught in the crossfire—or a casualty among the protestors; he’d not told the psych droids about that dream variation. Those few years ago were centuries, in hindsight. Fuck, he was old. He watched things from a faraway place like an old man. He should have died on Hoth.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and went to the living room. A yellow light blinked on the HoloNet terminal. He sat cross-legged on the couch and went through the unread mail in his inbox. His heart ground to a halt when he reached a message sent by his father’s address; it resumed an almost normal rhythm again when Veers read—twice—the subject line. _Support the war effort, buy war bonds_. Some offer reserved to family relations of employees in the bank where his father worked. Used to work or still worked? Veers had no idea. _Flag as spam. Block contact. Delete message_.

His parents, if they weren’t dead, must have seen him and Zev on the HoloNet News. Their son and grandson were alive; that was all they may care to know.

And there it was, the invitation reminder for tonight’s fancy dinner at—he read the name aloud under his breath—Jeskeith Manor. Same as that Navy girl at the restaurant, Captain Jeskeith. Soon to join Death Squadron with a shiny new Star Destroyer.

 _Dress uniform is highly suggested_ , the final line read. Veers groaned.

Since there weren’t any other messages worth being distracted by, he went to exhume his dress uniform. It lay at the bottom of his travel trunk in a vacuum-sealed bag; once he opened it, a smell of musty wool wafted to his nose. The uniform was more crumpled than a crashed Rebel snowspeeder.

This compound had an ironing service, but the flat also had its own ironing kit. Veers had seen it while exploring the bedroom wardrobe. He set up the ironing table, filled the iron with water, switched it on, and when it was hot he set to work on the trousers first, then the tunic. Last, the towel that had fallen off to his feet. It was moist and should have been left to dry, but he ironed it anyway. What mattered was the motion, the physical distraction.

Next came his medals, in a small box in the same trunk. The Army had issued a Hoth medal, too; since courier ships weren’t allowed while the _Executor_ was at Bespin, the Army Command had transmitted the medal’s design and the thing had been 3D-printed aboard the flagship. There weren’t enough to be awarded to all the troopers and NCOs who had participated in the battle, but they sufficed for the officers. The inherent classism, involuntary or not, still made Veers grit his teeth as he took the medal out of the box and pinned it to the tunic. Now that all the grunts had been delivered their rightful gongs, he could wear his own without shame.

The Hoth medal was a thin silvery disc with an AT-AT and a snowflake embossed at the centre. Veers pictured a smoking blaster bolt hole where the medal was. It would burn through the upper corner of his right lung. Not enough to kill him on the spot.

His hand groped in the box and fished out another medal, affixed it, went on to the next, until the box was empty and his dress uniform a brief but comprehensive summary of General Veers’ life.

After a glance at the time—far too early, a few empty hours to waste until the reception—he commed for a speeder to come pick him up; garrison command said they already knew, and if the general wished to go anywhere now—

“No, thanks. That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.”

Veers closed the comm. He flexed his arms and legs, lay down on the floor and did push-ups until his muscles ached. He paused for an instant, then started again,  increasing the speed. Like he was fucking someone, but he went too fast and burned too much strength to conjure up an imaginary arse to pound. Every huff of breath turned into a growl of pain, the ache into a fiery burn.

At last, Veers crashed face-down into a pool of his own sweat. His whole self shrank to the bliss of respite. When he tried to wipe sweat off his brow, the socket of his shoulder felt like his bones had grown sharp edges and were mauling his flesh from within.

He lay there in a sprawl, like when he’d been wounded on Hoth. Face-down on cold ground, the discomfort of his body forming a capricious, confused disappointment at being alive. Then the combat medic had crawled towards him. Snowtroopers were firing at the Rebel sniper.

Careful with moving his arm, Veers touched the faded blaster scar on his flank. He had been wounded in action before, and gotten drunk before; none of those times he’d wanted sex. Most times he hadn’t been able to want it; there was always something else to do, and Eliana was countless parsecs away. The _Executor_ , three years on that kriffing ship, had corrupted him. Had it not been a military environment, he would have grown the same sort of restless he did on Denon when home leave dragged on longer than necessary. There was no happy middle ground between too long, and so short it left him yearning for just one more standard hour.

Either way, it always was Eliana who wished for more time together. She wished for him to stay; sometimes he’d say he did too, and he was lying. His sad face, which she stroked and kissed till the very last moment, was not entirely due to the departure; having to lie about what Eliana assumed was his normal reaction, as husband and father, came with a poodoo feeling. _Shame on you, Max. You don’t deserve her_. Yet he kissed her and inhaled her smell to the bottom of his lungs before walking off to the shuttle ramp.

Minutes trickled by. The shoulder pain faded to tolerable. When the hard cold floor became the worst source of physical discomfort, he sat up; he needed a second shower. He brought along the used towel there’d been no point whatsoever in ironing, and clean underwear. As soon as the cool water washed down over him, his throat realised it was parched and he drank from the shower jet. The soap he then spread on himself smelled of jogan fruits, and made his stomach grumble.

His decency protected by a tight-fitting undershirt, a pair of briefs, and socks that about two weeks ago—still on the _Executor_ —Piett had insisted to mend for him, Veers moved on to the kitchen. There was no way in hells he was going to order again takeaway food delivered by a sentient who’d watched the HoloNet News. He inserted his code cylinder into a locked cabinet, and when it opened he selected his readymade food of choice from the holomenu and swiped the cylinder on the reader. He rolled his eyes at the price. Thank the stars for free dinner tonight.

The cabinet spat out a hot bowel of ‘topato and seasonal sprouts soup’. He went to eat it on the couch. The holoflick channel was running the sequel to the Mandalorian war drama from last night. The heroines were living on a peaceful planet, tending to their farm, raising a little boy, and admitting to each other the quaintness of it all was deadly boring. An obnoxious elderly feminine narrator, that the moviemakers had presumed would sound wise, explained the obvious, “ _Perhaps they began to suspect that war had drawn them together. It was their shared adventure and misfortune. But what was left there to bind them, once war was over?_ ”

Veers stirred the spoon in the plastifoam bowl. What was left there to bind him and Piett? Loneliness, unaddressed despair, the carelessness that came from risking life and limb. That might be the case with Veers. On Piett’s side... well, the admiral just liked him as a handsome man with a big todger.

His clenched fist snapped the spoon in half. One day it would be Piett’s neck; one day when Lord Vader was in no forgiving mood. Veers wanted to hope that day came soon. Then the general in him pointed out that Piett may be a terrible partner, but he was a capable admiral. Death Squadron was better off with him than with Ozzel.

Veers put down the half-empty bowl and the broken spoon, turned off the movie channel and on the HoloNet inbox, and started composing a transfer request letter. Lord Vader was not stupid and knew about his two highest-ranking subordinates’ secret relationship; no point cooking up a fancy excuse. _Personal incompatibility arising with Admiral Piett_. That would be all. His finger hovered on the ‘send’ button.

If Vader accepted the request, though, where would Veers end up? His skin crawled. No way they would send the prized—and ageing—Hero of Hoth into active service again. They’d cage him up in the Core for the rest of the war, give him a cosy flimsi-pushing garrison command, and have him smile for the holocameras and tell kids to flock to the nearest recruitment office. Veers growled at the screen and at the words he had typed.

He did not delete the message, but closed the inbox and got back to the holoflick. While he dealt with his identity crisis, the Mandalorian power couple had started a private war with a Zygerrian slave cartel and the corrupted Republic officials that allowed it to flourish; that seemed to have rekindled their marriage. Whenever there was a commercial break, Veers turned off the volume in case ‘join the Army’ ads came up. Moreover, an arts and crafts company had launched an AT-AT model kit; the happy Human family in the holovid assembled the model and remote-piloted it over a snowy lawn. Veers shut his eyes, in case the set came with Hero of Hoth action figures. When he reopened them, the commercial break was mercifully over.

Several gratuitous fake explosions and gratuitous fake sex scenes later, the holoflick ended. Veers was glad the two fictional characters had rediscovered their happiness and purpose for living, and sorry they would once again become bored in peacetime. He went to brush his teeth and get dressed. The formalwear uniform fitted him more comfortably than he remembered. It was a mild reassurance to know he hadn’t grown a paunch since last time he’d worn it.

There was still time before the speeder came to pick him up, and he could use a breath of fresh air after a whole day indoors. His body would appreciate every minute of dirtside environment before heading back to space. Unless he did ask for a transfer...

He stepped out of the flat, the door locked behind him, and he didn’t move. Didn’t look at the door to the neighbouring flat. He would count backwards from ten, then call the lift.

A lock beeped and a door slid open.

“Good evening, General,” Piett greeted him. Like nothing had ever happened between them.

Veers slanted a look at the admiral. “Silver isn’t your colour.”

Piett pulled his shoulders back, showing off the Navy dress uniform. “In my opinion, it is.” There was no mistaking the contentment on his face, just under the outer layer of aplomb. As if he’d never seen a man in fine rags before, and was all the more surprised that man was him. And as if Veers was an ignorable presence.

Veers clenched his fists in the creaky pair of pristine gloves.

“Speaking of uniforms, General, you left your cap in here.”

Veers avoided eye contact, but not the implicit question. He spun on his heels and stomped up to Piett, who stepped aside to let him in.

“Where is it?” Veers asked. Out of habit, he shot a look at the door to check it was closed and locked. Of course it was.

“Bedroom.”

He stomped in there. Nothing in Piett’s bland, calm tone suggested he wanted them to do anything in the bedroom. A wave of nausea rose from Veers’ stomach, clogged up his throat and broke in his skull. Same shitty feeling as when that sad Mirialan prostitute on Corellia had led him upstairs to the private rooms. What was her name…? Brina. _Don’t ever forget it, you bastard. She had a name_. He muttered it under his breath. Wrong Basic-speaker pronunciation and all that.

“Sorry?” Piett’s voice from right behind him startled Veers. “Were you talking to me?”

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Veers opened fire. “Now I am. What do you want from me?”

Piett leaned against the doorframe. “You, but without the boring bits. I was watching a holoflick earlier today, during a break from work—”

“You have been _working_ today?”

“—and I just wanted to fast-forward past the gooey love banthacrap and the political statements. Movies like that are made by people who have never set foot in the Outer Rim, and it shows. Anyway, what I wanted to fast-forward to were the sex scenes.”

“I liked the love banthacrap.” Veers snatched his cap off the nightstand, folded it and stuffed it inside a trousers pocket. “So, I am a _boring bit_ once you get to know me?”

“Not right now. I like you quite a lot when you’re this angry and…” Piett licked his lips, his gaze roaming up and down Veers.

“ _And_ what, sailor?”

Piett opened his mouth, closed it, stared at Veers for a few seconds. “How about you stop being so nice and do me what you think I deserve?”

“I do _what_?”

“Come on. Do you need some Corellian courage first? That all-too-memorable night after Hoth, it worked better than my long months of careful and respectful courting.”

“Firmus, for the love of—! After everything you told me about your friend and…”

“This ain’t the same as _that_ , luv.” Piett sashayed to him and grabbed the lapel of Veers’ uniform. His left leg planted itself between Veers’ legs, thigh pressed to Veers’ crotch. Up close, Piett smelled of his usual Navy-issue deodorant, plus a flowery aftershave. “C’mon, we have time—” He gasped as Veers took a firm hold on his wrist and collar and threw him onto the bed.

“What the fuck is this, Firmus?” Veers screamed to his face. “Some kind of mind game?”

“A compromise.”

“I don’t fucking like to be toyed with!”

“Hence why I’m offering it.” The cap had rolled off Piett’s head. His short, thin curls were combed neater than usual.

“What would it be, then? Bending each other over with no strings attached?”

“As good friends. Is that a cultural taboo on Denon, perhaps?”

“No, but that’s not the point!”

“Of course. The point is, I am not her.”

Maybe Piett expected that retort to be met with a kicked tooka face. Apologies and awkwardness. So Veers did the unexpected: he grabbed a fistful of Piett’s hair in one hand, Piett’s shoulder close to the neck with the other, shoved him off the mattress and slammed his back against the bedpost. He crouched between Piett’s legs and glared him dead in the eye. “Well fucking spoken, you bastard. I would have never done any of this to her.”

Whatever fear and surprise Piett had let flicker into visibility, he blinked it away. He offered Veers a lewd smile. “I know, luv. ‘s damn great to have someone you can rough up real nice.” He flicked his tongue over Veers’ chin.

Veers slapped his right hand palm-down over Piett’s neck. “What in blazes is wrong with you? First you get jittery because I’m too rough. Then I’m too soft and you like it rough again. Make up your bloody mind, Admiral.”

With the same unsettling smile plastered over his ugly mug, Piett bit his lower lip and half-shut his eyes.

“Whore,” Veers hissed. “Filthy son of a Hutt. And here I hoped you’d be at least a little bit sorry for how you treated me.”

“Make me sorry. Come on, General. Pound that into me, you coward—” He choked. Literally. Veers had tightened his grip.

It was just a moment. Veers let go of Piett’s neck and, while the latter gasped for breath, he unbuckled and tore off the belt from the admiral’s waist.

Massaging and shielding his neck, Piett watched the belt in Veers’ hands. The tip of his tongue peeked out of his mouth. Using his free hand, Piett started unzipping his trousers.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Piett stopped. He planted on Veers the blankest innocent eyes. “Getting ready for my punishment.” Those eyes flicked to the belt, lingered on it.

“Do you think I want to whip your ass?”

“Yes, please.”

“Hands up! Hands up I said!” Veers gathered Piett’s wrists to the bedpost and tied the belt around them, in a crude but solid knot. Piett squirmed his head into a more comfortable position. Veers sank a hand into the other man’s pomaded hair. “You’ve made yourself pretty tonight, Admiral.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like that you made yourself pretty for someone who isn’t me.” Same words Eliana had told him, one of the first times she’d seen him in dress uniform; they were young and the army he served in was the Republic’s. _Eli, come on, that ‘someone else’ is the Denon rep at the Senate! He’s just giving me a handshake in front of the holocameras, not banging me_.

Piett inhaled sharply. His clean-shaven face was reddening, a bulge on his groin showing through the skirts of his tunic.

Veers pulled himself to his feet. His knees had not liked the crouching position, and now complained with stabs of pain; his feet in the boots were cramped and numb. This was Piett’s fault, too. Physical discomfort fed an all-encompassing rage: the same burning that had made him not stop his tired, angry troopers shooting wounded enemies on a battlefield where they’d won. Things were bloody simple when he was so angry. “I tried being nice. But you keep being a little nerfshit. So you know what, Firmus? Fuck niceness.” Bloody simple, like pulling a trigger.

There used to be many people—nowadays a lot less—who made a case for bloody simple, no-nonsense military force not being enough to solve the complex long-run problems of the galaxy. At times, Veers himself had found them convincing, even very much so.

“ _This_ is the General Veers I dreamed of fucking for years,” Piett rumbled.

Shit on them all; brute force worked.

Veers reached for Piett’s hair, grasped a fistful and shoved the admiral’s face against the front of his trousers. Piett coughed, mumbled, licked, bit, nuzzled. Tried to pinch the zip with his teeth and pull the fly open. Veers pawed back and forth through Piett’s hair, pushing and pulling him, eliciting a grunt of pain now and then.

Pressure grew in Veers’ lower belly, his cock pulsed in the confinement of clothes. He yanked Piett’s head away and used his free hand to undo the fly; it was already halfway down.

Piett rolled on his knees, trying to wriggle out of Veers’ hold; his eyes didn’t leave the wet front of Veers’ pants for a moment.

“What you want so badly is this, I suppose?” Veers grabbed his own erection through the pants. It was less hard than he expected.

“Let me suck it, please.”

It responded with a twitch. Head spinning, Veers stroked himself, dug his fingers underneath the damp fabric. “ _Please_? You have to be shitting me. Beg for it or forget it.”

Piett moaned, straining against the belt to rub his chest on Veers’ leg. Veers yanked his head back, making him cry out. He let go at once, by instinct. “Beg! Did you hear me?” The fucking unreality of the whole situation struck him awake and aware like an ephedrine shot. He was standing with his cock half out—and barely half hard—while his lover and commanding officer, Lord kriffing Vader’s trusted admiral, sat spread-legged and wheezing in front of him, his hands tied to a bedpost, cheeks red, eyes half-shut.

“Shit, Firmus. This is a mist—”

“General, I beg you, let me suck it.”

Veers stepped closer, planting his boot hard on the floor; Piett winced at the thump. Veers pulled down the front of his pants and took his bare cock in both his hands. Squeezed it at the base and stroked it along the shaft.

Piett sighed and licked his lips, then gazed up at Veers.

“Fucking stop looking at me that way!” Veers removed the stroking hand and used the other to whip his todger in a slap across Piett’s cheek. It hit a hard angle of jaw and Veers hissed in pain.

“As you wish, General.” Piett kept his head down. “I… I beg you, let me—”

“Shut up.” Veers loaded and reloaded the barrel in hurried, angry strokes. It took the ventral cannon damn long to charge this time, despite the sight of Piett acting all submissive. Shit, it was like being a clueless teenager again and trying to fap to porn he wasn’t into.

His glower fixed itself on Piett’s tousled hair, the pale neck that peeked between the rear hairline and the collar of his tunic, the noise of his heavy breathing, his hands twitching in the improvised cuffs. _Fucking nine hells, Max_. Why wasn’t all that enough to make him durasteel-hard? Maybe he should give in and let Piett suck him off.

“Hell no.”

“General…?”

“Shut. _Up_.”

Veers closed his eyes. Back to the dream. Denon, home, the bedroom. Eli on one side, Piett on the other. Veers ran a hand down his chest where their kisses would blaze a trail, pinched a nipple between forefinger and thumb through the uniform. At the same time, he kept winding up his shaft. Eli and Piett getting there together, nibbling and kissing at his inner thighs, exchanging a look to decide who would have it first.

His cock reacted with a twitch.

Piett’s lewdest, biggest grin lighting up his face. They could fight a war on two fronts as allies.

Veers pushed his hand down to his bollocks and past them, digging for his entrance.

Being rolled to lie on his side, Eliana lifting his leg over her shoulder, spreading him wide open while Piett shifted behind him. Spit-slicked fingers down the crevice of his ass, prodding and stroking and teasing.

In the real universe, with gloves on and no lube, there wasn’t a chance Veers could penetrate himself with even a fingertip. His breath ragged, he focused on the imagination: Piett’s tongue following suit after his fingers had opened him up. Its whole length writhing inside him, lapping the hot tight walls, all the way to his prostate.

“General? I beg you to let me suck you. Or give you a kiss. Just… just lick it once.”

Snarling, Veers pulled Piett’s head up and against his crotch. He didn’t give Piett time to get used to his girth, to take him in gradually, not now, damn it. He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see it wasn’t her. Eliana locking her lips around his shaft, rolling her tongue around the throbbing hot flesh that puffed up her rosy cheeks. Her eyes open, staring up into his. Challenging him to do his best, proving to her he was worth waiting for.

He grabbed onto the bedpost and thrust his hips back and forth. He didn’t stop at the bed’s creaking protests, nor at Piett’s whimpers. Soon he was making noises of his own, louder and deeper as he neared climax. “Eli… Eli…”

Piett tried to growl something, but choked on the cock that was fucking his throat and started coughing. Veers felt teeth on his shaft, and pulled out of Piett’s mouth. The momentum almost sent him tumbling down backwards.

Piett’s slack jaw dropped onto his chest. He was out of breath, his tongue lolled out, drool trickled over to his uniform.

Veers fought the urge to ask him if he was okay. He swayed forwards on his trembling legs and held onto the bedpost with one hand, mashing it against Piett’s bound wrists. Fingers in a smooth leather glove pawed at his knuckles. His other hand grasped at his cock. It was wet and, thank the blasted Force, up at full mast; it slid so well as he pumped himself in his own fist. Now he needed no fantasies and none of Piett’s help to finish.

“Max—General…”

The noise of his own panting and the thrum of his bloodstream filled his ears. An instant later, relief. “Oh, fuck…!” A sweeping, warm wave, like an explosion that felt so damn good it could never be death, not that kind of death.

“Sithspittin’ hells, watch out! Get off of me!”

A headbutt to the abdomen knocked Veers out of balance. He fell to sit on the floor.

“Look what ye’ve done ta me uniform!”

Veers blinked through a fast-dispersed haze of endorphins. “It’s not that bad, sailor. Must be why the Navy picked that colour for the fine rags.” He stifled a laugh. “It camouflages the spunk.” Not so much on Piett’s face; the spurt had creamed him from brow to chin.

“General, I cannot go out in public in this state.”

“You shouldn’t have provoked me, Admiral.” He raised an eyebrow at the bulge in Piett’s trousers. “Oh, you got a space slug infestation in your pants.”

“Free me, asshole.”

“The correct wording ought to be _please, General, would you kindly release me?_ ”

Piett snorted. “Please, General, would you kindly release me?”

“Do you have tissues?”

“What?”

“Tissues.”

“Are you even paying attention? Fucking free me!”

“Never mind.” Veers used the cap in his pocket to wipe himself clean. Basic hygiene taken care of, he got to his feet and pulled his nether garments up.

“Max, for Force’s sake, we’ll be late—”

“I don’t think _I_ will.” Veers ambled towards the door.

“Wait! Are… are you leaving me here, like this?” Piett squirmed against the belt knot, fell back breathless.

“Hmm. Maybe it’s a bad idea.”

“Oh, really!”

“Careful, or you’re going to sprain your shoulders.”

“Go fuck a Hutt.”

Veers chuckled. “I’d rather think _you_ capable of _that_.”

Piett struggled harder, making the bed creak. For several seconds until the stubborn sailor was too tired to fight on, Veers watched him, his flushed semen-striped face, the sweat stains spreading on his tunic, the swell in his trousers deflating.

A comlink pinged somewhere in the room.

“Poodoo,” hissed Piett, glaring at his trousers left pocket. “Come on and untie me, Max. I need to take the call.” Veers could almost mistake the sudden weariness in his tone for genuine. Hells, maybe it was, but who in blazes cared?

Veers bent down, plucked the comlink from Piett’s pocket, and placed it in his hands. Without untying a damn thing. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how to undo that knot in any way that didn’t involve a knife. “Now you can call for help.”

“Sure, and let some chatty Kuati midshipman see me—”

“Have a good evening, Admiral.” Veers spotted a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and pocketed it. “These are bad for your health. Glory to the Empire!” He strutted out. A storm cloud of Huttese and Mandalorian swear words followed him all the way to the lift, for all that he’d closed the front door behind him.

Two speeders with military drivers were waiting at the gate. Veers’ driver, an Army sergeant, tossed a cigarette to the ground, leapt off the seat and sprang to attention, crushing the cig under a boot.

The ride out of town passed in silence, save for the distant thunderbolts.

“Sergeant,” Veers said, staring into the rear-view mirror.

The reflection of woman’s dark brown eyes flicked to meet his. “Yes, sir?”

“Would you like a cigarette?”

A very brief hesitation. “No, sir, thanks. I can’t smoke on duty.”

“Good point.” Veers imagined her the very same night telling her buddies over a pint of ale that General Iron Max Veers smoked Jamel Filters. _No way_ , he could imagine them replying. _Veers is a cigar type_.

About thirty standard minutes later, they reached Jeskeith Manor. Bloody rich bastards owned an entire island. A hoverlantern-lit path led the speeder to a tree-lined private parking lot. Once disembarked, Veers glanced at the dark and caught a fleeting, blink-or-you’ll-miss-it sight of the security blaster mines attached to the tree trunks.

“General?” the sergeant said. He didn’t turn to look at her, so she cleared her throat and made another attempt, “Dinner is this way, sir.”

“I know.” Veers waved a finger at the trap-ridden dark vegetation. “Sarlacc X-70 vidcam mines, I’d wager.”

“Jeskeith Aerospace started mass-producing X-71s, sir.”

“Did they? Interesting. X-70 mines on Sriluur took down eighty-five percent of my company in two days.”

“Sriluur, sir? The Weequay pirates homeworld?”

“Partners of the Black Sun cartel. They made enough credits off the spice trade to buy some of the best military-grade tech on the market.” Veers strode up the path the hoverlanterns illuminated, leaving the sergeant to ponder the dark side of galactic capitalism in his wake.

He’d been bored out of his wits at quite a fair share of upscale gala dinners, by whose standards this one was quite frugal. A garden party, all in all. The first being Veers interacted with was a server droid, who gave him a glass of sparkling wine and a cheerful robotic welcome, “Good evening, General Veers! My programming instructs me to extend you the most vivid congratulations for your contribution to victory.”

 _Victory… The war isn’t over yet, rust bucket_. “Thank you.”

The droid glided to refuel another guest’s glass. Fucking rust bucket had succeeded in drawing attention to Veers.

“General Shale,” he said and bowed his head to the woman marching up to him, at the lead of a group of people in Army and Navy uniform.

“Ah, General Veers. Pleased to see you.” Shale did not appear pleased. She was the only one in her cohort not to be carrying a glass. “And the slightest bit surprised.”

“How so?”

“Jylia is not a lover of publicity, that’s all!” A man with a Moff rank bar on his uniform patted Shale’s shoulder. She didn’t look at him, and made a barely visible flinch. “I reckon, because she believes she should have been on Hoth, reaping the fruits now.”

Shale worked her jaw, her eyes still fixed on Veers. “General, may I introduce Moff Kuras to you?”

“Good evening, sir.” Veers had heard the local Moff was a tactful diplomat type. This interaction was hardly tactful, which suggested a grudge between Shale and Moff Kuras. He’d seen such crud many times before, and wanted nothing to do with it. Least of all pick a side.

“Honoured to meet you, General.” Kuras shifted the wine glass from right to left hand and extended the right to Veers. He was not wearing gloves and sported thin, plain silver rings at every finger. Each piece of jewellery must have an embedded set of biometrically activated access codes to the shipyards, their most restricted areas and data cores.

Veers gave the Moff a strong handshake, which Kuras returned in kind. They stood still for an instant, measuring up each other. A camera droid flitted over them, snapped a few holos, and flew past. Their hands disengaged.

“Have you met Admiral Piett as well?” Veers asked, repressing a toxic impulse to giggle.

“Not in person. We spoke over the comm while the _Executor_ was on her way home.”

“Home? He isn’t Kuati.”

Kuras laughed; the other officers joined in his hilarity a fraction of second later. Shale shut her eyes for a few seconds.

“Well, well,” Kuras said, “you could mistake him for one, let’s put it that way.”

A woman with captain’s rank badge and a handful of campaign ribbons pinned to her uniform piped in, “ _Almost_ mistake him for one, sir.”

Veers fixed a glare on her, and the sneer she was wearing waned to a polite blank face.

“I did mean,” Kuras led on the conversation, “it is the _Executor_ that was coming home. She was designed and built here. And it has been your home away from home for the past three standard years, hasn’t it, Veers?”

The large bed on Denon, the one in the admiral’s quarters on the Lady Ex, the smell of Eliana’s favourite laundry soap and that of Piett’s cigarettes, they mixed together in a flash. “In a certain sense, sir.” Veers drank a long sip of his wine.

“Would you please follow me, General? Our hosts are looking forward to hearing the Hero of Hoth’s informed opinion on Super Star Destroyers.”

“Are they?”

Something in Veers’ tone froze up Kuras’ smile for a split second. “Of course. The Kuat Drive Yards consortium is always open to feedback from the field.”

“I’ve sent you plenty of that,” Veers couldn’t hold himself in check, “including after Hoth, when Rebel snowspeeders took down AT-ATs using _tow cables_. Did you read my reports?” Of fucking course they didn’t. “I have sent copies of them to KDY in addition to the Joint Chiefs command.”

“Fancy yourself a whistle-blower?” Shale snorted.

“I care that my brigade doesn’t suffer avoidable losses, and that nobody cuts corners on the weapons we are winning the war with. Do you mind?”

“How can you stomach serving under Lord Vader, then? He does have a penchant for causing us plenty of avoidable losses.”

“Shall I refer this respectful opinion of yours to him, next time I meet him?”

To the credit of Shale’s guts, the sour expression on her grizzled face didn’t fade to any shade of fear. If possible, she seemed bored. “What possessed you to attack that shield generator without air cover? Why not wait for anti-starcraft support?”

“Time was a luxury that Blizzard Force couldn’t afford, and so are your armchair general games—”

“Actually,” Shale stepped closer to him, blowing a faint smell of wine to Veers’ face, “I have to wonder why it was thought necessary to take down that shield generator altogether? Death Squadron was blockading the planet. Firing on the Rebel transports as they tried to break through would have been a more logical solution.”

Three years of patience crash course, courtesy of the late Admiral Ozzel, kept Veers in check, and his fists from hitting every punchable part of Shale’s body. “If you had read the after-action report, you would know the Rebels had a v-150 ion cannon targeting our capital ships. So, unless you were keen on watching Death Squadron drift out of action one Destroyer at a time—”

“ _Generals_ , excuse me,” Moff Kuras interrupted the fight. Shale and Veers both responded to the commanding, polite stress on their common rank, and quieted down. Kuras extended an arm over Veers’ shoulder, without touching him. “We shouldn’t keep our hosts waiting, Veers. Please come with me.”

Veers shot Shale a final blaster-grade glower and followed Kuras. “Where have all your aides gone?” Veers asked.

“They weren’t my aides; toadies, the majority of them. You and dear Jylia scared them off.”

Veers couldn’t muster the hypocrisy to apologise. In fact, it took him an effort not to swear aloud. If an argument among top brass was enough to force these Core Worlds crawlers into hiding, what would they do if they ever had to deliver bad news to Lord Vader? Possibly knowing they were walking to their death, like the late Captain Needa of the _Avenger_? Pathetic. And these were the people who would step in the line of fire, fighting for the Empire once Veers and his ilk were gunned down for good… Pathetic, and worrisome. All of a sudden, Veers didn’t feel much like being at a party, having fine drinks and fine food and smiling at assholes and pretending all was good while _nothing_ was good.

Moff Kuras introduced him to the Jeskeith ladies. Veers gathered up his steely resolve and smiled at them. _Chin up, soldier; briefings with Ozzel were worse than this_. “Madams, thank you for your invitation.”

Lady Miep Jeskeith née Kuras, the Moff’s sister, didn’t much resemble her brother unless one counted in the courteous smile. “It is an honour to have you here tonight, General. The Hero of Hoth in person!”

Yes, the Jeskeith Aerospace PR team must be shedding enough happy tears to irrigate Tatooine. The camera droid hovered by them; Lady Jaclina and Lady Miep offered him their hands and he kissed them.

“You have the same eyes,” said Lady Jaclina.

“Pardon?”

“You and your son, General.”

“I… beg to differ, ma’am. It must have been a trick of the image over the HoloNet.”

“Oh, no, this is personal experience speaking. Your handsome boy Zevulon was here but five minutes ago.”

“Such a pity our daughter took him hostage!” said Lady Miep. Of course it was a damn joke, but a shiver ran down Veers’ spine. She nattered on, “I was just telling him that Thichis is a Prefsbelt alumnus as well.”

“Indeed,” the Moff feigned grumpiness, “of a class two decades older, to be charitable to myself.”

“Excuse me,” Veers interrupted the family banter, “my son is here, now?”

Lady Jaclina answered, “Our daughter insisted he was assigned a seat at the same table as the _Bulwark_ crew. His reassignment seems likely to be aboard her ship, you see.”

“Madams, may I ask you a favour?”

“Anything in our power for the Hero of Hoth!”

Although spoken in an impeccable Core accent, that statement to Veers’ ears sounded like Outer Rim junk sellers and market vendors. Those who sold overpriced trinkets and bad local booze to stormtroopers. “Could my son and I please not be holoed together?” Meeting the ladies’ wide-eyed looks, Veers tried to explain, “I’m aware that footage of me embracing him has been a propaganda hit, but Zevulon… is very keen on his privacy. He would rather go down in history as a good officer doing his honest job, rather than a HoloNet fad.” This applied to himself, but he was confident Zev might agree; at the very worst, it was a believable, politically correct lie.

The ladies’ faces turned rueful. “My, General,” said Lady Miep, “I fear this request falls outside of our power. We negotiated our instructions with the Ministry of Information for use of recordings and images taken tonight; _they_ will decide what to do with them on HoloNet official media outlets.”

Lady Jaclina was sterner than her wife. “It was all written in the invitation. Didn’t you read the fine print?” She plucked a wine glass from a passing server droid. “Always read the fine print, General, always. Whole fortunes and chances at happiness are lost to such brief instants of carelessness.”

Veers clenched and unclenched a fist behind his back. Spoiled war profiteers giving him life advice! He had had an adult lifetime’s worth of carrying the death of others on his shoulders, and this bastard talked about fortunes and maybe some rich toff she’d spurned in her youth. _Well, ma’am, I hope the war ends soon and peace wrecks all your fruitful military contracts_.

Lady Miep kissed her wife on a cheek, which lit up Lady Jaclina’s charming smile. Veers looked away.

“General, wouldn’t you happen to know if Admiral Piett has arrived?” asked Lady Jaclina.

He blinked. Had she read his mind, his dark and vague emotions?

“I was informed the drivers had set out at the same time to come pick you and the admiral up.”

Moff Kuras turned to his sister. “Are Admiral Piett and the general staying together?”

Kuras couldn’t know the full implications of that way of wording it. It was a literal and innocent question. Staying together… After tonight, Veers doubted it. Stupid him for dreaming it could happen. “Yes, sir. We are lodged in the same building. Apartment neighbours, in fact.”

“Oh, where?”

“Kyber Heart Residence.”

“Ahh, good choice! Very cosy, a tad high-end, but you pay for discretion; no CCTV in the flats. I heard Lady Juno tried to murder her husband there once.”

“Thichis, please! You make it sound like General Veers is up to something illicit.”

“I didn’t see the admiral on my way out,” said Veers. “Have you tried reaching him through his personal comlink? He is a conscientious man and always keeps it around.”

“We might as well. He’s supposed to give the pre-dinner speech in…” Lady Jaclina checked a blue beads bracelet at her wrist, that had a chrono display mounted into one of the stones. “Fifteen standard minutes!”

Veers smirked at Kuras. “Was the speech in the invitation’s fine print, too?”

“In Piett’s invitation, I suppose.”

“I will go and smooth out this little kink.” Lady Jaclina adjusted the shimmersilk scarf on her shoulders, as solemn as the Mandalorian warrior in the holoflick donning her helmet for the new mission. “Would you please remain here within reach, General? Just in case.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He watched her strut among the guests until she found Shale and stopped to speak to her, too far for Veers to hear and with stranger faces, formal uniforms and fancy dresses disrupting visual contact at every moment.

“Veers,” said Kuras, “in case you didn’t grasp it: arm yourself with nice words. Something inspirational.”

“Sorry?”

“General Shale will deliver the intro, so this gives you some extra time to think it up. Please ensure it’s something the public hasn’t heard before; recycling your old speeches to cadets may have worked once—I saw you on HoloArmy for the Hoth special coverage, and I did recognise the turns of phrase. That’s just cheap and people do notice, I’m afraid. The _Executor_ propaganda officer should have pointed it out to you. She seemed quite young and incompetent.”

“She is respectful. In Death Squadron we value that quality, especially Lord Vader. And I am not giving any speech tonight, sorry.”

“Oh, I fear it is an order, General,” the Moff said.

“More wine, sir?” a server droid peered in to ask.

Veers placed his empty glass on the droid’s plate and snatched a full one. “I cannot argue with that, sir.”

“It is the point of an order, isn’t it?”

Kuras was still wearing his courteous smile, but Veers had the impression of having stepped on a landmine. A polite landmine that wouldn’t tear you to shreds, at the condition you had the good manners of moving your foot away.

“Indeed, sir.” Veers directed his frown, far too tell-tale of his opinion about Kuras’ order, down to his glass, studying it like a drowned bug was floating in the wine.

Kuras turned his attention to someone else. “Baron Valon, good evening!”

“To you, my dear. Look who’s here, Hwan? Uncle Thichis!”

“He is so shy!” cooed Lady Miep. “He doesn’t take much after Ailsa.”

Veers eyed the new arrivals. A handsome man in fine clothes, a child looking no older than five in his arms and burying his tiny face in the man’s expensive jacket.

“General,” said Lady Miep, “may I introduce you Baron Toshiro Valon?”

Veers and the baron exchanged a small bow. “And the little baron here,” said Valon grinning, “is Hwan. Say hello, Hwan.” Valon had a charismatic smile and a smooth voice that warmed and sweetened when he spoke to the child. Nostalgia stirred into Veers, the guts-deep longing Eliana had once confessed she felt at the sight of men being good fathers while he was far away. His was not quite a desire to be that man, but to have one. A husband.

The thought of Piett flashed across his mind, and he drank up the glass in one sip.

“Forgive me, I am in a bit of a hurry,” Valon was telling the Kuras siblings. “Would you happen to have seen Eistir? Ailsa and I are considering sending out a search party of scout troopers.”

“My,” said Lady Miep. “Is she escaping punishment?”

“She tried to catch a hoverlantern and reprogram it, I do not dare imagine to what purpose. We scolded her and she ran off. Typical Eistir!”

Veers tried to stalk away now that the attention was no longer on him, but a server droid with no full glasses left on its plate hovered in front of him. “Lady Jaclina kindly asks you to remain here, General.”

“I need to use the toilet.” Veers dropped the empty glass on the plate and moved past the droid. Kuras called behind him, and he pretended not to hear. It was noisy here in the crowd, after all. Officers he was acquainted with greeted him, and he returned the salutations. Glasses clinking, natter in upper-class Coruscanti accent that made all voices sound alike. His escape didn’t bring him even in sight of the restrooms, which he wasn’t searching for anyway; all the server droids he came across repeated Lady Jaclina’s kind request to haul his arse back to base.

When he finally complied, Baron Valon and his kid were gone and in their place stood Lady Jaclina and General Shale. Fuck.

Camera droids hovered above them. Veers stopped at an arm’s distance from Shale, pointedly not looking at her.

Lady Jaclina pressed a bead on her bracelet; the first notes of the Imperial March rang out from every server droid in the drinks area. The natter died out, bar isolated coughs.

“My dear guests!” Lady Jaclina started out. As she prattled on about how wonderful it was to gather here and blah blah blah, Veers wondered if the server droids were amplifying her voice towards the farther ends of the crowd.

“—and it is a special pleasure for me to present you two heroes of the Empire tonight: General Jylia Shale, commander in chief of the Kuat City garrison, and…” Dramatic pause. “General Maximilian Veers, the Hero of Hoth.”

Veers straightened up to an even stiffer attention position, bracing himself against the applause that washed over him. Death by firing squad was similar; just replace the applause with blaster bolts.

“Gentlebeings!” Shale barked through the noise. Enough authority and rage resounded in her voice that the clapping faltered to partial silence, dying down as she delivered her talk, “It is perfectly Human and patriotic to congratulate ourselves for our latest military successes, as loyal citizens of the Empire and members of its armed forces. It has been a much needed injection of pride and trust, and a proof that we are taking steps in the correct direction after the tragedy at Yavin IV.”

Faces frowned in the crowd. Veers didn’t know the civilians, but some of the military were familiar: Navy officers who used to be chums with Grand Moff Tarkin. Yavin for them had been a matter of fall from sovereign grace, more so than one of comrades lost to an X-Wing’s eerily lucky shot.

The perennial scowl on Shale’s own face deepened. “However, the war goes on. The enemy is scattered but not yet vanquished, hiding away in the farther recesses of the galaxy just as it does in our midst, undermining our safety where we presume to be strongest. The Empire is still in danger; much needs to be done on our part to save it. And much needs to be done in different ways. I beg you,” Shale’s tone was the very opposite of begging (Piett had been better at it), “esteemed citizens who build our war vessels, and all my fellow officers gathered here: remember what is at stake. Strategy is an unforgiving art, that won’t allow us any chance to fix the mistake if we go through a second Yavin.”

More faces were frowning now. Others rolled their eyes. A scornful smile shone here and there. Baron Valon was among the eye-rolling ones, a couple rows back to the left edge of the crowd; the child was sitting on his shoulders, watching the serious straight-backed adults in funny clothes who talked about scary things.

“We cannot afford to rest on laurels. We must use every credit, every last blaster bolt, and all the influence we hold. Be alert and willing to take action, but most importantly, be conscious; for victory—true victory, not the temporary vantage of a successful battle—hinges on _you_ as well. Thank you.”

Silence followed for a few moments. Veers heard the wind whoosh and birdsong in it. Then someone clapped and someone else followed. It was brief. Veers resisted a childish impulse to smirk at Shale.

Just as the unconvinced applause died down, Moff Kuras whispered again to his ear, “Fix this mess.”

Veers took half a step forward. “By now, the galaxy knows everything it is safe to publicly know about the Battle of Hoth. If you wish for more in-depth commentary on it, I will refer you to my subordinates’ after-action reports and my own. The many military people among you can easily access them.”

The crowd laughed like he’d cracked a joke.

“My colleague General Shale was right in pointing out the war isn’t over. The only ones for whom it is over are the dead. We had several on Hoth, sentients who laid down their life and limb for the Empire. For me, for you, for our families at home, to live on in safety.” _Fucking hells, Max, these people make huge credits off the war industry, war is their safety_. “The few words I wish to say tonight are just these: do not forget them. Do not forget the people they’ve left behind, the widowed partners, their children, parents. Their war is very much not over. And, in my experience, it is one that even our institutions tend to forget.”

The crowd didn’t seem moved. Polite interest at best.

Veers raised his voice, angrily glad to see a few rich civilians flinch. “I won’t stand for oblivion. I and my troops are doing our bit, like our fallen comrades did. You, gentlebeings with power and money—I respectfully ask you to do something for the families of the fallen. Maybe the Veteran Affairs Office will be more willing to listen to you rather than to me.”

They laughed again, though it wasn’t as loud as before. Someone started clapping, the crowd took the cue, and everyone joined into an ovation. Veers tried to speak but couldn’t hear his own words. The applause carried on. He sighed as he gazed at the cheering guests; that little noise was lost in the applause, too. He should rage, start yelling, but he was tired all of a sudden. His throat was dry and called for water; just plain water, not fine wines.

Kuras patted his hand on Veers’ shoulder and led him towards the patio. Veers didn’t resist.

The Jeskeith ladies didn’t follow, but Shale did. “That was better than I expected, Veers.”

“I could say the same.”

“I need to be honest with you, Generals,” said Kuras. “Some toes have been stepped on. I think you already noticed.” On the _you_ , he slanted a pointed look at Shale.

She snorted. “They couldn’t side-line me any more than this, even if they sent me to an Outer Rim garrison. And I needed to get that off my chest.”

“More than you needed people to actually listen to you? Maybe agree with the message you wished to convey, and put it into practice?” asked Kuras.

“With all due respect, sir, you are reasoning like a senator of the Old Republic and I don’t mean this as a compliment.”

Kuras turned to Veers, laughing. “What do you think, Veers, should we propose dear Jylia for command of a garrison on Hoth?”

“Hoth is a graveyard, not a garrison.”

A flock of officers and a few of their spouses trapped Veers in a circle of greetings and compliments. Kuras and Shale walked on, continuing their mildly-worded fight.

“You care so much for your lads and lasses, Veers—I’m certain they return the feeling!”

“They do, sir.”

“Shale on the other hand… The only thing she cares about is throwing shade on Yavin. As if we hadn’t heard enough of that from Grand General Tagge!”

“It did seem a bit unnecessary, ma’am.”

“ _A bit unnecessary_. Stars, Veers, your reputation as an undiplomatic brainchild of Vader is truly wrong.”

They laughed, except for a middle-aged Mirialan woman in a science corps uniform who stroked her chin. The first non-Human Veers had seen at this gathering. “I am of the opinion General Shale was throwing shade on something more recent than Yavin.”

“And you wouldn’t know what that is, Professor Demesne?”

“Hmm. I have heard rumours that she disapproved of the newest development plans at the Imperial Energy Systems. Thieving of fleet resources, in her words. Ohh, Ailsa, Ailsa, over here!”

Snickers. “Oh, my. The IES director is her ex-husband…”

“Excuse me,” muttered Veers, shuffling his feet backwards. Nobody made a move to stop him, so he turned around to complete the disengaging manoeuvre. And he stood thunderstruck.

A drop-dead gorgeous Human woman in a no-frills but oh so curve-complimenting dark velvet dress prowled towards them. Veers shook his head, inwardly slapping himself for regressing to a horny adolescent. Damn it, though, her face. The intense expression of restrained wilderness was just how he’d always pictured the youngest of Eliana’s goddesses, the gatherer and disperser of storms. No jewels on her pale-skinned bare neckline, no earrings, a shade of make-up, a silver headband holding back a river of wavy black hair.

When her eyes glared Hoth icicles at him for a split second, a shiver crept down Veers’ spine. It ended a bit too close to his crotch, but still bore a genuine fearful chill. The real goddess, here to punish him—had Eli sent her?

The goddess thawed into a smile. “Reeva, it’s been a while!”

The Mirialan science officer stepped forward to greet her; they shook hands, exchanged a kiss on the cheek and friendly small talk. When the science officer motioned her to come closer to the others, the goddess remained still. She didn’t even glance at the Imperials.

“Who is she?” Veers whispered to a Navy vice-admiral he’d known on Corellia. She was just a captain then.

“The greenskin?”

Veers gritted his teeth. She’d been less of an arsehole when she was a captain, or maybe after that horrible night at the brothel he’d grown sensitive to speciesist slurs. Especially those directed at Mirialan women.

“Professor Reeva Demesne. Used to be in Project Celestial Power; KDY gave her a new contract after the fiasco on Eadu. She only has Galen Erso’s death to thank for—” The vice-admiral shut her trap as Professor Demesne and her hot friend drew nearer.

The goddess still didn’t look at the uniformed people; instead, she nattered on about research grants with a charming Core-but-not-too-Core accent. Veers wondered if she could be a Denoni; for Yllnaten, it would make a lot of sense.

“Reeva, if you don’t mind,” the goddess said, “I really need to go and track down Eistir before she gets her dangerous little hands on a droid.”

“Eistir as in,” Veers spoke up, making the goddess wince, “Baron Valon’s runaway daughter?”

At last she looked at him. It must have been like this for the planet Alderaan to lay in the Death Star’s targeting system. “Are you an acquaintance of my husband’s?” Disgust mixed with disbelief.

Veers should’ve been upset, but after the cheers and the propaganda holos and the pats on the shoulder, such open antipathy was refreshing. “We were introduced tonight for the first time,” he answered as if trying to exculpate himself. “I met Hwan, too. He seems to be a sweet kid.”

“Yes. He doesn’t like playing soldiers.”

This shot hit the target. Whatever the target even was. Veers balked under the sting, that sent his heart racing and a sorrowful jumble of thoughts about Zev—another Zev, a little boy the age of Hwan Valon, who loved being carried in dad’s arms—flashing across his mind.

The vice-admiral said, “Lady Valon, did you know that General Veers met your previous husband as well?”

The superlaser charged. “Is _he_ at this party?”

“No, no, no. No, he… nobody’s quite sure where he is at this very moment, but what was I even…? Ah, right. Veers knows him. You do remember Rear Admiral Jerjerrod, don’t you, General?”

“…Yes.” Veers held Lady Valon’s death glare, staring right back at it. “I punched him in the face.”

“You _what_?”

“That’s true,” the vice-admiral ventured. One look at Veers, and she wisely decided to say no more.

“He’s Moff now, I reckon,” someone said. “Jerjerrod, that flimsi-pusher, a Moff! Haha!”

“Sorry, Reeva, I need to go fetch my daughter,” said Lady Valon. “It’s almost dinner time, isn’t it?”

“May I come with you and help you search?” asked Veers. He leaned a little towards Lady Valon and whispered, “Save me.”

Lady Valon quirked an eyebrow. Veers could sense the inner scanners at work, judging him and weighing him. “Do you have any experience with riotous children?”

“Quite, milady.” More pain was audible in his voice than he would’ve liked.

Lady Valon nodded, just once. She said goodbye to Professor Demesne for now, turned and… Veers tore his guilty eyes off her beautiful afterburners, caught up with her and walked at her side, careful not to steal even a glimpse of her cleavage.

“So, now that we’re alone and don’t risk to offend anyone’s sensibilities, how did it happen?”

“Punching your husb… Jerjerrod in the face?”

The corner of her mouth curled up at Veers’ self-correction.

“He and Moff Juno—”

“Oh, dear.”

“Indeed. They had been drinking, it had been a long day where Jerjerrod managed to piss off all the people he shouldn’t have pissed off in Kolene, and… well, you know how Juno is, I suppose?”

“You currently hold the number one place in his personal chart of the Empire’s finest butts. I am number two. If you’re wondering how I know, Lady Juno told me a few standard weeks ago on Coruscant. She was quite spiteful at ranking only sixth.”

Veers grimaced. “Anyway, Juno suggested… or rather imposed, that we,” he lowered his voice, “go to a brothel. One of the state-run recreational facilities, of course.”

“We hadn’t even finalised the divorce yet,” Lady Valon hissed.

“For some reason, Jerjerrod thought that buying me a ride was a brilliant idea to help me cope with my own personal grief. I lost my temper.”

Lady Valon was silent for a few steps, the superlaser aimed at the void in front of her. Then, the sun broke through the storm clouds. The goddesses bestowed a smile upon him, and his heart, as the Hrönir prayer went, filled with bliss like the sea with golden ripples. “Now I’m starting to regret I missed out on your speech, General.”

“It was banthacrap anyway. Milady, where are we going, if you don’t mind me asking? This isn’t how a search operation should be carried out.”

“Taking a long-winded path to the dining hall. No search operation whatsoever. And if _you_ don’t mind, it’s Ailsa.”

Amazing how punching someone’s ex could improve their opinion of you. Instead of offering love and sucking cock, he should have tried beating up the cadets who used to bully Piett at the academy. “Max,” he said. “You don’t need to bother with Maximilian.”

“Fair enough.”

She led him all along the patio, where people were starting to sit down at the dinner tables. Duraglass panes now insulated the patio from the night outside, and guests who walked in from the courtyard held their headgear against the rising wind.

“So, if this is not a search operation, what is it? Just an excuse to run?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Clever. I suppose we are going to find your lovely daughter in the dining hall, safe and sound with her father and brother?”

“Eistir is a skilled accomplice. And everyone can testify she _is_ a handful.”

“I see. You wanted to be sure you’d miss out on the speeches and have a valid reason for it, didn’t you?”

“This way, Max.” They crossed into a high-vaulted room adorned with flags and joined a fast-streaming queue of guests through a gilded doorframe, twice the width and height as the entrance to the _Executor_ ’s command bridge. Since Veers didn’t insist on her evasive action, Ailsa went on with a harmless topic, “Have you ever had dinner in the traditional Kuati style?”

“Hour-long waits for the food, yes.”

Ailsa gifted him another smile, broader than the previous. “Technically, that wait has already passed. Now it’s time for the appetisers.”

Veers looked around in the dining hall. “You could land a few starfighter squadrons in here. Just fly them through the windows. Provided the pilots like frescoes and gilded frills on the ceiling.”

“The food is over there. The seating is whenever you fancy.” Ailsa gestured at the rows of semi-circular sofas that surrounded the food-laden table at the centre of the hall. Hovertrays floated by the sofas, ready to receive plates and wine glasses. “This is a real traditional Kuati dinner. The principle is, you grab your food and drink, then go caucusing with your business associates as you eat. You might have to go from guest to guest, and tables with fixed seating in that case are a hindrance. So they did away with them altogether.”

“It doesn’t sound very comfortable.”

“I thought you Army men were taught to live off ration bars? You don’t exactly eat those in Chandrilan porcelain dishes.”

“Correct. Ah, there is your husband.”

“Wouldn’t you like to join us for dinner, Max? You’re quite good at glaring; you could help me scare the nuisances off.”

“I’m a celebrity, as it appears. I fear I’d attract nuisances instead. Nuisances of the military sort.”

There was a shift in her expression, as brief and dark as the shadow of a passing starfighter on the ground where you stood.

“You’re still welcome to join us.” Ailsa went to sit by her husband on the sofa. Baron Valon adjusted a hovertray with a dish of colourful food on it so that it levitated at her height. Her little boy and her slightly older girl lit up in big grins that spelled out ‘mom!’ from a few parsecs away, and threw their arms around her; she nearly dropped the chunk of meat she’d impaled on a fork, but laughed back at the children.

Veers stalked off to the table and had a plate filled with fishcakes in a berries sauce and a glass of plain water; the berries and the spring water both came from the gardens of Jeskeith Manor, the server droid informed him in a feminine voice.

“And I suppose the fish comes from this lake?”

“Yes, sir. Fishing rights on Kuat are under heavy restrictions, so it is a privilege for our esteemed guests to be able to taste this delicacy.”

Veers sniffed the fishcakes on his way to the sofa. Privilege or not, the stuff in the fish market of his hometown smelled better.

Ailsa spotted him first. She spoke a word to her daughter; Eistir leapt to her feet and sat back down wedged between Hwan and their father, burying her face in Baron Valon’s shirt.

“Milady, Baron Valon and you little ones,” Veers said bowing his head, “would you mind if I joined you?”

“Sit down before we get stuck with someone boring,” Ailsa replied.

Veers complied; he placed his dish and his glass on the hovertray floating closest to him.

“Mom,” he heard Eistir ask, “is he an acquaintance of yours?”

“You may talk to him, Eistir, Hwan. General Veers is very fun. Call him Max.”

Veers took a sip of water to soothe the thirst he’d forgotten having.

Hwan tilted his head from behind his mother. Her bosom was a tad distracting, but Veers focussed on meeting the child’s big-eyed stare. “You are on the HoloNet.” It wasn’t too clear if Hwan had meant that as a question or a statement.

“Yes, sometimes I am. But I like it better to be here.”

Hwan’s jaw dropped.

His sister rolled her eyes. “Hwan thinks that all the sentients who appear on the HoloNet are fake characters, like in cartoons—”

“ _Fictional_ characters, bug,” her father corrected her, with a smile of long-practised patience.

“Well, they’re all fake!”

“He isn’t fake,” Hwan said in a quiet but steady voice. “He isn’t blue and… I can touch him…” Then he stretched out an arm towards Veers, who, after a glance at the boy’s parents that read approval and mirth on their faces, extended his hand. Hwan’s tiny fists grabbed onto his fingers, felt up the gloves.

“So, Hwan, what do you think?” Ailsa asked. “Is Max real or fake?”

The child frowned in earnest concentration, without letting go of Veers’ hand. “Real… but _Genralvyrs_ is fake.”

Baron Valon laughed and Ailsa smiled, and Veers smiled too, despite a puzzling cold shiver running down his spine. “That’s very clever, lad,” he said. “My compliments.”

Hwan fixed a pair of intense dark eyes on him, almost too big for his little chubby face and as adult as those of his father.

“General Veers isn’t fake,” Eistir was saying in a long-suffering tone, “he was just on the HoloNet! Mom, when is Hwan ever going to learn the difference?”

“Soon enough, bug. Aren’t you eating those vegetables?”

“Nope, I don’t like them.”

“Good! More for me.”

Hwan chose that moment to crawl over his mother’s lap, nearly knocking the hovertray off, and drop down to sit on Veers’ thighs.

“Hwan!” his mother started.

“No, don’t worry, it’s fine.” Veers pushed his hovertray to the side so that it was out of any collision route with Hwan’s head.

“He doesn’t do that with many people,” Ailsa said, sounding not so much apologetic as amazed.

“Just with us, his favourite tutor, and his grandma,” added Valon. “He must really like you, General.”

“He’s Max!” said Hwan.

Veers laughed. “Ah, he’s right. General Veers is fake, remember.”

Eistir groaned.

“You see, bug,” Valon forked one of the roasted vegetables Eistir had discarded, “General Veers being fake is a metaphor. Do you know what a metaphor is?”

“Of course I do!”

Valon smirked. “What is it?”

While Eistir pretended to know, Veers asked Ailsa, “Is she always this much of a handful?”

“Always. I hope she never changes.” She rested her left elbow on the back of the sofa, and her chin on the palm of her hand, facing Veers. Her eyes, full of a serene smile, were on her son; up close like this, Veers could study their pitch-black colour at leisure. She didn’t remind him of Yllnaten anymore; the junior goddess didn’t have children, anyway. Eliana said that Yllnaten was the goddess a woman should pray to for a safe abortion. Ailsa had now become Yllmuzg, the middle sister, the ruler, the mother who demanded her daughter—the Denon sun—a report on the worldly affairs the sun has observed, every day at dusk when Yllmuzg’s star rose and stayed visible for barely a standard hour in the darkening sky.

Hwan touched the medals pinned to his uniform, the way a very young Zev had once done with the captain rank badge he wore at the time.

“Have you ever been by the sea, Ailsa?”

“Are you kidding me? I was born and bred in Val Denn.”

“Tinnel IV, right?”

“Yes. Why were you asking, anyway?”

“There is this Denoni sea goddess that my wife used to pray to…” Fuck, was he really saying this? How damn creepy and corny was that? “And in the icons, the way she’s pictured—well, you sort of resemble her.”

Ailsa was silent, his heart stopped, his cheeks caught fire.

“Stars,” he tried to be brave and fix the mess, “that was awkward, wasn’t it?”

“It’s hardly the first time a man has told me I have the likeness of a goddess, but you get points for being specific.” Her free hand moved towards Veers; he fought with success an impulse to draw back, but couldn’t tear his eyes off of that slender, pale-skinned, well-manicured hand, the nails painted a dark blue that matched her dress, mottled with white and purple to suggest the hues of a nebula. She gently pried Hwan’s hands off a medal the boy seemed keen on ripping off of Veers’ uniform. “My ex-husband compared me to a singularity. In the astronomical, black hole sense.”

“Huh.”

“And at another time, to a Krayt dragon.”

“Who taught him to flirt?”

“Would you like to do better than that, General?”

He felt small and ashamed under the shine of her stare.

“Tell me about this goddess I remind you of. I reserve the right to get very sarcastic if it’s all a matter of feminine curves.”

Veers darted a glance at Baron Valon; the man had shifted farther down the sofa, and was talking to a lavishly dressed couple armed with full wine glasses. Eistir was nowhere within sight. _Good chance_ , thought Veers and felt bad for thinking it. But still he took it. “My knowledge of Hrönir lore is rusty by now; my wife was the faithful one, anyway—I just tagged along because it mattered to her and her family. Well, the main deities are these three sister goddesses, each representing a time of the day, an aspect of time and existence, and among many other things, a meteorological event connected to the sea. Something about ancient seasonal rites.”

“And which one of the three sisters do I remind you of?” She brushed a stray curl back behind her headband. Veers had to cross his legs, careful not to accidentally shake Hwan off, or get a baby foot stamping on that furtive early stage of a hard-on.

“The twilight star, Yllmuzg.” He mentally apologised to Eliana for the shitty pronunciation; usually it made her laugh, but back then she wasn’t dead and he hadn’t ever betrayed her. “She is the present time, balance, order, justice, fair government, rightful authority—”

“It hardly sounds like an accurate depiction of the present time.” She paused, then added as if in an afterthought, “Rebellion, war, disorder, unsafety, the whole shebang.”

“The founders of the religion aren’t around to witness the current galactic civil war.” Then again, back in those days the people of Denon were pretty much always in a state of civil war between each other; but Zev was the history geek, not him. “At any rate, what I mean is, she’s the most… regal of the goddesses. The sea when it’s wind-swept but not stormy.” Veers found himself trembling at continuing the sentence. “She appears in the sky at dusk. At that time, the sky has the very same colour as your eyes.” There. The thermal detonator had been thrown.

Nothing happened. Ailsa’s head rested languidly on her palm, no storm clouded her celestial eyes.

“She’s the only one to have children, too,” he dared go on.

“Are her children all right?”

“I… think so. One of them is the star of the Denon system.”

“Hmm, good. I meant no offence to the religion, but mythological parenthood on Tinnel IV is all about elder gods cannibalising their progeny.” Her eyes went almost all black under the canopy of her eyelashes. “Now that I think about it, it is a fitting metaphor for my ex-husband’s household.”

“I don’t want to imagine Jerjerrod having a child, let alone eating one.”

Before Veers could start fretting that the joke was too crude, Ailsa laughed. Her laughter was enchanting because it was much louder than her conversation tones; passing guests shot her glances, and so did Hwan, who saw his mom smile and broke into a smile of his own, wagging his little index finger at her.

“Want to go over to mom?” Veers asked. “Eh?”

Hwan just stretched out both his arms. Ailsa took him in hers and slid him onto her lap. “And this is…?” She grabbed the boy’s right wrist. Something shone in his hand.

Veers ran a hand over his tunic. There was an empty space between the medals. “It’s the Clone Wars Memorial Award. I’d like to have that one back.” He laid out his hand palm up. “Hwan, please?”

“Clone Wars, eh?” Ailsa raised an eyebrow. “In a sector army, or—”

“The Grand Army. Clones everywhere, but I never saw a Jedi. I’d been in the field for a few standard weeks, then the treason happened. My first campaign, in fact. I hadn’t even graduated yet.”

“I didn’t know they had non-clone officers.”

“It was a late idea. But lucky for the Empire to have trusted people ready to fill in the officer cadres, when the Jedi stabbed us all in the back and the clones got too old for active service.”

“And non-Humans were politely nudged out of the armed forces.”

“Milady, don’t tell me you believe that Rebel propaganda!”

“General,” she replied, her face and voice those of a goddess again, “don’t think I’m naive or uninformed. Part of my research work went into the Death Star project. After that experience, I have come to _despise_ naivety. And I am ready to despise you quite a lot, should you show any of it.”

Veers held her stare, let the judgment weigh him. He felt a tiny metallic object in his palm. Still keeping eye contact with the goddess, he pinned the medal back to his chest. “I was never very interested in politics. I have a hunch the real rationale behind an all-Human armed force is some wild assumption that all Humans are as good at war as the Mandalorians. More into hard facts, we’re a common and versatile species, breed fast, fairly good balance of intelligence and violence, pretty low-maintenance and easy to heal. Perfect blaster fodder.”

“If you say so.”

“We definitely didn’t like the idea of a clone army on Denon. Endless debates on the HoloNet talk shows, protests in front of public buildings... My parents and I had a very bad argument when I told them I was going out in the field with the clone troopers.”

“I had no idea the Denoni were so speciesist.”

“No, no, that wasn’t the problem; you see, my grandfather had been born a slave, somewhere in the Outer Rim. My father was always sensitive to that, and an entire army of men designed and bred for one purpose didn’t sit well with him.”

The goddess was about to speak again, but Hwan thrust himself towards Veers, nearly out of her arms. Ailsa rolled her eyes as she held him in place. “Hwan, how come you ignore your toys at home, and now all of a sudden want this poor soldier’s medals so badly?”

“Here you go, kid.” Veers unclasped one of the medals and gave it to Hwan. “That’s from the Gree campaign. He can keep it.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t that illegal?”

“I am sure. I should have gotten rid of that one a while ago.” Placed it inside Eliana’s casket, or better yet, thrown it into the sea or a trash compactor.

A frizzly dark-haired little head with a pouty face popped out from behind the sofa, next to Ailsa. “Mom, why is it that when Hwan steals a military thing you let him, and when I do you ground me?”

“Have you been eavesdropping down there the whole time, bug? Remarkable patience, but let me see your dress.”

“I didn’t wrinkle it!” Eistir pinched her dress at the hips and pulled it down. The creases in the fabric stayed visible.

Veers unpinned a random medal from his uniform and offered it to Eistir, who stared at it like it was a piece of twitchy dianoga tentacle. “You can have this if you want it,” said Veers.

“Max, please, my children don’t need further spoiling.” Ailsa seemed to have a hard time making Hwan understand that popping an Imperial military medal in his mouth and tasting it was a bad move.

Eistir shook her head, turned and ran, dodging every finely-dressed sentient that got in the way of her escape route.

“That’s a gravball talent right there,” Veers observed, pinning the medal back into place.

“I don’t want to yell at her now, even if she’s being terrible—Hwan, come on, can’t you try stuffing your little mouth with _food_ for a change? Eistir doesn’t like big dinners with adults. My husband’s cousin insisted, though, because some distant relatives would be here and had never met my children... well, _Toshiro’s children_... and so we had to drag them here. They don’t have other kids their age to socialise with, the relatives made dull comments on how strikingly they resemble my husband, and it’s full of...”

Her proud, goddess-like expression wavered, while her eyes were fixed on Veers.

“Imperials,” he spoke up the timorous word she left unsaid. “So, after being burned by Jerjerrod, you cannot be expected to have a very high opinion of officers, I suppose?”

“And _I_ suppose you hope to change my mind. Or at least make me reconsider my drastic judgment. Not all officers are like him; some are like you.”

Veers laughed quietly, unable to tell if she was making subtle fun of him or just stating a plain truth. Who the hells was he to make her reconsider that judgment? A stupid young man who put his work above his wife and son, to the point of losing them. A lonely old pervert who insulted non-Human prostitutes and, once starved for sex enough, drunk-fucked his admiral.

“Haven’t you two touched any food?” Baron Valon piped in. Alcohol added another layer of shine to the glossy fire of his eyes, half-shut, maybe suggestive.

“We started chatting,” Ailsa answered, natural and without a trace of defensiveness, “and forgot all about this being a dinner. I have the impression General Veers didn’t like the menu very much, anyway?”

“No, I do, but...” His plate of fishcakes lay barely touched on the hovertray. “I am not very hungry.”

“Maybe you could convince Hwan to try some food? He’s a picky eater, but he relaxes his standards when he’s fed by someone he likes.”

Valon made a face at the suggestion that General Veers, the Hero of Hoth, should help spoon-feed his toddler son.

“I can try, but make no promises.” Veers pulled the hovertray near him and held out a hand towards Hwan. “Want to come over here, little man?”

Hwan squished his face between his mother’s breasts, which Veers again tried not to stare at. The boy managed to steal the scene by breaking into a big, unevenly toothed grin. Without waiting for his mother to help him, he shifted over to sit on Veers’ lap. Veers took a forkful of fishcake and went through the old gimmick of the TIE fighters flying into the hangar to get the food into the kid’s mouth.

“He’s a natural,” he overheard Ailsa say. In the corner of his eye, he saw she was smiling at him; he could feel it, in fact, the glow radiating from her smile like sunlight on a springtime day. There were no springtimes on the _Executor_ , and he had missed that sensation. Piett had been nice until it had lasted, but a woman smiling—a truly beautiful woman with something of a goddess about her—was an upper league altogether.

“Ailsa, darling!” Baron Valon called.

The smile dimmed within the limits of politeness, and she turned while Veers kept his eyes down on Hwan and the last TIE fighter flying into the hangar, to avoid staring at her.

“Our final guest is here. Admiral, my wife, Baroness Ailsa Valon. And I suppose you don’t need introductions to General Veers.”

Veers’ heart accelerated.

“Pleased to meet you,” Ailsa said.

“Pleased to meet you, milady.”

The first thing Veers noticed was the wine glass, the blood-red liquid splashing in the goblet as Piett drank it up in one go. Lowering the empty glass, Piett blinked and his wine-stained lips trembled, as if he didn’t know what look to school his features into. So much for the best sabacc face in Death Squadron. Veers just put up his cold, unsmiling business front.

“Good evening, General,” Piett said in a flat voice. He was wearing his usual service uniform, without medals. “Have you had a good time so far?”

“Excellent, sir.” He caught Hwan squirming onto his lap before he fell off, grabbed a tissue Ailsa was handing him and wiped the child’s mouth clean. “Thank you, Ailsa,” Veers said. “Well then, little boy, want to go back to your mommy?”

Hwan glanced between the two of them, scratching his chin.

“Oh, sweet stars!” Ailsa laughed. “Should you consider a career in babysitting, Max, please give me a call.”

The sound of her laughter would have placated an angry wampa. Hwan reached out towards her, and Veers effortlessly passed his soft few kilograms to Ailsa.

“Admiral, are you all right?” asked Valon.

Piett’s head twitched into a nod. “I’m sorry, Baron. Lord Vader was not in a good mood. It rubbed off onto me.”

“Oh!” Veers said. “So you came late because you—”

“Had a very urgent comm, yes, General.” Piett’s eyes were watery and he wouldn’t stop blinking. It was unnerving. Without another word he spun on his heels and darted towards the buffet table, his drab olive uniform standing out amidst the gaudy evening dresses and the gala uniforms; a few officers in their fineries eyed him in disapproval. One followed him.

“Rude,” Ailsa said. “Is he... traumatised by Lord Vader? He sure seemed so.”

“Ailsa, please,” said her husband, “let’s not repeat ugly gossip in Max’s presence.”

Veers spotted Kijé, gazing in the direction Piett had just gone. She gave a lost look to the room around her; Veers waved a hand at her. She beamed and trotted to meet him.

“Maybe we should go find Eistir _again_?” Valon was telling Ailsa. There was no concern in his voice, but a subterranean suggestion. A hint of warning.

“Yes.” Ailsa rose, Hwan in her arms. “Max, we’ll all see you later, if you don’t mind...”

“I absolutely don’t.” He waved bye-bye at Hwan, who returned the gesture over his mother’s shoulder as she sashayed away. Stars, what a perfect arse. His mind lifted the skirt of her dress to her waist, pictured lace underwear on candid skin.

“Permission to express an opinion, General?”

Veers turned to Kijé, saw her gaping at Ailsa. “If it has to do with Lady Valon being very beautiful, I think it’s best left unsaid.”

“I agree, sir. It keeps the poetry alive.”

“Sunshine, stop staring at her ass.”

Kijé looked away with a flinch.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“Not yet, sir. Captain Sarkli said he was going to raid the buffet—his own words—and come back with food for the two of us.”

“Captain Sarkli, eh?”

“...Sir?”

“I get it, I get it. Must be the Outer Rim accent.” He gestured at her to sit down next to him, which she did. “Nice new haircut, by the way.”

“Thank you, sir.” She removed her cap to show off her shaved sides and freshly trimmed forelock. “I love it, but I don’t think I would have cut my hair like this had he... not said he’d like it, too.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Nothing bad with wanting to be pretty for yourself and for someone you’re interested in at the same time. Kill two mynocks with one stone.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How come I didn’t see you at the speech, though?”

“Oh. Well, Captain Sarkli and I were on our way to the dinner—”

“Why was he invited, by the way?”

Kijé started fidgeting with the cap she was holding on her lap. “He... he quite frankly admitted he invited himself, because he’s Admiral Piett’s nephew. And, uh, speaking of Admiral Piett—we were on our way, when Captain Sarkli received a comm from the admiral.”

“Ah?”

“Yes. He said he needed him to come pick him up at his apartment, right away. He didn’t explain why. But he sounded angry.”

“So, you went to his apartment...”

“...where we found his driver, who told us she’d been waiting there for a while, had seen you leave—oh, she only told us all of this restricted information because we made it very clear we were COMPNOR!”

“I’m sure you got her to brown her pants.”

“I don’t know, sir, it was quite dark and she was a fairly ugly woman, so I didn’t look at her backside—anyway, Captain Sarkli went to the apartment. About ten standard minutes later, he and the admiral showed up; I... felt like I should point out to the admiral this dinner required formalwear, but something told me I better shut up.”

“It’s called instinct of self-preservation. And it saved your life, sunshine.”

“How so?”

“He was angry, wasn’t he? You do not want to get on Admiral Cold Sweat’s bad side. Or on any admiral’s bad side, as long as you are just a lieutenant.”

Kijé nodded. “A long drive in uncomfortable silence followed. Captain Sarkli had a half-smile on his face the whole time, though.”

Veers pretended to sneeze in order to conceal a fit of laughter.

“Bless you, sir. And, uh... I noticed this half-smile thing because I kept staring at Captain Sarkli the whole time.” The fidgeting intensified. “Sir, may I... ask you something a little personal?”

“Relationship advice?”

Another lip bite, and a kicked tooka face.

“One: never love him more than he loves you. Two: if he’s like his uncle, run away.”

“L-like his uncle _how_ , sir?”

Veers gazed into the moving crowd. _Loaded with unaddressed baggage. Stone-cold. Bloody-minded. Just wants to treat you like a sex toy, and toys don’t think, don’t speak and don’t suffer_. “Small-calibre lower deck artillery.”

Kijé gasped. A passing vice-admiral slowed down and shot her a cocked-eyebrow look.

“How do you know... _that_?” Kijé asked in a whisper.

 _I’ve been polishing his blaster almost every night since Hoth_. “Scuttlebutt.”

“That is... a new one? I mean, I have been monitoring plenty of scuttlebutt aboard the _Executor_ as part of my duties, and I’ve ever come across remarks on... Admiral Piett’s... in that sense.”

“My point still stands.”

“Ahh, General Veers!” a wine-toting civilian in a light purple suit approached him. “Vice-Admiral Sloane just told me she’d seen you here.”

Damn. Ailsa’s godly powers must have projected a deflector shield against nuisances. Now she was gone and the shield with her.

“Count Dartmoor Todo, CEO of InterStarChem Inc. Rings any bell?”

“I’m afraid—” A blaster shot hit him in the head. The company Eliana used to work for. The last one, the guys who’d hired her for that water sampling job on the outer moons. The reason why she had to take the ferry shuttle, and be in that accident. “Yes. Now it rings a bell.”

“I never met your wife in person, but her loss deeply saddened all of us. She truly made a difference in our Denon branch.”

“She made a difference eleven standard years ago. I’m sure your Denon branch has long since found a suitable replacement, Count Todo.” _Just like I have found one in my bed_.

“Well, we still wish she were here with us.” Todo didn’t lose any of his initial joviality, despite Veers’ glare. Of course this asshole couldn’t be a wimp if he was a Kuati businessman, in the fray since at least a decade ago. “It might bring you some joy to know that the research she started has eventually found applications that are benefitting the Empire. And the armed forces, especially!”

It failed to bring Veers any joy. It did bring him a nauseous feeling at the pit of his stomach. “What applications? She was an hydrologist, not a weapons researcher.”

“Yes, of course. We only extracted and tested the minerals; many of them, however, turned out to be of interest for the aerospace engineering industry. The Imperial Navy has been our largest contracting party for... oh, a couple of years now.”

“So, since Yavin. It’s the name of a system, not a foul word.”

“At any rate, General, I’m sure she would be proud of you, of what you did for the Empire, and of where you are today.” Todo patted his shoulder. Veers considered grabbing his arm and throwing him across the sofa. “Who knows, she might have become a manager. Pardon me, I need to go and seal a deal with our gracious hosts. Have a good evening and glory to the Empire.” He strode away in a purplish blur.

Veers sat there gazing and not seeing anything or anyone, for several seconds. His heart pummelled in his ribcage like blaster bolts rapping on an AT-AT’s armour.

“...General? Sir?”

He took a deep, huffing breath. “Did you notice, sunshine? He never called my wife by her name.”

“Yes, I did. It was awful. I think he was just trying to be a bootlicker.”

“What are you doing with that holocamera?”

“...I had to take a holo of you and Count Todo. I received orders—and he is very rich and influential, so... I’m sorry.”

“I know, I know. We all have to do difficult things in the line of duty. Don’t I know. Give me that camera.”

She made a frightened look of _why?_ on her face.

Veers took the holocamera between both his hands, turned it on and the latest taken holo materialised: himself sitting, Count Todo patting his shoulder. “A real pity it’s broken.”

“W-what?”

He put all the strength he had in his arms into crushing it. The camera crackled, the holo flickered off. He plopped the camera into Kijé’s hands; there were two pieces of it now. “If your asshole CO asks, I bumped onto you, knocked you on the floor, and somebody stepped on the camera. If he mouths off at you, tell him to grow some balls and contact me.”

“I will keep that in mind, sir. I, uh, better go find a trash compactor now.” She got to her feet, saluted, dropped a piece of camera in the salute, scooped it up and ran off.

Before anyone else came to pester him, Veers pulled his cap down on his forehead, slouched back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He’d almost dozed off for real when a server droid spoke too bloody close to his ear, “General, your vital signs indicate you are not inebriated. You are kindly requested to wake up and proceed to the ballroom.”

“How offended would Lady Miep and Lady Jaclina be if I stayed here and got drunk for real?”

“With all due respect, sir,” a non-robotic feminine voice answered, “my parents would be mad.”

Veers opened an eye and peered at Captain Jeskeith from under his cap visor. “Good evening, Captain. I was talking to the droid here, so next time you wish to offer input, ask for permission first.”

“Yes, sir. I apologise, sir.”

“Well. Go ahead, Captain, I will rest for a little while and not drink a single drop of wine.”

“Yes, sir.”

 _Jumped up little rich shit thinking she can tell a general what to do_. Veers closed his eye again.

“Permission to inform you that Baroness Valon is quite fond of dancing, sir?”

With a heavy sigh, Veers got to his feet. Jeskeith was a pace away from him, but as soon as he towered above her she shifted a few centimetres backwards.

“Good for her,” said Veers, “and for Baron Valon. Now go.”

“Yes, sir.” Jeskeith saluted and left, a picture of fresh-off-Prefsbelt poise and unreadable embarrassment. The contrast with Kijé was light years beyond striking.

She joined a group of people exiting the dining hall through a side gate; just a few guests remained, hounded by server droids that floated by them and insisted they moved on to the ballroom. Veers spotted an olive Navy uniform among those loiterers, and made his way out of the dining hall at once.

He spotted Ailsa right away. She stood alone by the orchestra podium; Hwan wasn’t in her arms anymore, nowhere to be seen.

Perfect chance... Veers wanted to slap himself. He skidded to a halt and was about to retreat to the empty dining hall and the leftover drinks, but she looked in his direction and smiled. He dashed to reach her.

“Ailsa—nice to see you again.” It wasn’t just for the short run that his heart was beating so fast. “Is Eistir still MIA?”

“She’s what, sorry?”

“Ah... on the run?”

“Oh. Yes. We did find her, actually. Then she escaped again while we were distracted by conversation, taking Hwan with her. My husband is chasing after them.”

They stared into each other’s eyes. Questions, quivers. A slight blush spreading on her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

The orchestra began to play, so close and loud they both flinched, even though the music was slow and smooth.

“While we’re at it...” Ailsa extended a hand to him. “Can you dance, General?”

He couldn’t, but that wasn’t the point. He took her hand and walked her closer to the dancing couples. She rested her left forearm on his chest, her palm above his thumping heart; damn the medals and the fabric getting in the way of her skin. His arm encircled her waist.

“Last time I danced I was a cadet.” He was breathing her perfume and a hint of her sweat at every word. “So don’t expect amazing skills. But I promise I won’t step on your toes.”

“Likewise.”

Either he misremembered this slow waltz from academy dancing classes, or her body was closer to his than it should be. Damn him if he was going to correct her.

They swung together to the music, hardly moving from their spot while the other couples glided by. Her fingertips found interstices between his medals and pressed small circles in there, all the way down to his skin. He returned the touch in kind on her hip. Neither spoke. He savoured her smell, the warmth of her body. Her eyes lingered downwards, raking him, sending jolts down his spine, then boldly held his stare. It was good to be allowed to touch and desire the goddess, but being touched, desired by her—it made him tremble, hot and cold on a delicious edge under his uniform.

Too soon, the music was over. A shy hard-on was starting to swell in his pants. Ailsa’s face was flushed, her expression as serene and confident as ever; he could picture her giving such a look to a man who’d made her happy in bed and whom she had made happy.

He slid his arm off of her waist; she held onto his other arm as he led her out of the crowd.

“Well, milady—”

“Max, please, none of that formal nonsense.”

“I told you I wouldn’t step on your toes. Have I succeeded?”

“Don’t feel too special. Even my ex-husband was capable of meeting that standard.” She still hadn’t let go of his arm. “I must admit, though, it is a great satisfaction to share a dance with the man who decked that idiot.”

Veers broke into a grin. Maybe he wouldn’t have found that funny at another time, but Ailsa’s protracted touch was like an exhilarating drug in his bloodstream. “I’m beginning to not entirely regret that disaster of a night.”

“Just don’t let Moff Juno hear about it.” She laughed, and her laughter infected him.

“Mum’s the word, Ailsa!” He was already a bit snug in his nether garments, and calling her by her name caused a twitch down there. Thank the stars Ailsa wasn’t checking out his crotch. Not yet.

The laughter faded. Something else replaced it in her eyes. A question, shrouded in doubt. Guilt that was much younger than the woman who experienced it.

“So... do you think we should go find your husband and the kids, now?” he proposed, and he meant it. _And hide away somewhere and—_

“Mooooooommy!”

For a moment, there was nothing but sadness on Ailsa’s face; he’d seen that look before on Eliana, when it was time for goodbyes at the spaceport. Ailsa turned towards her children, smiling. “About time, you little anoobas!”

Eistir planted her hands on her hips. “A guy was giving you a stinky look. I told him I was going to call security if he didn’t stop!” Hwan caught up with his sister in a totter. He studied her posture and did his best to imitate it.

“You’re such a good girl, bug. All things considered.” She embraced the kids. “No more fleeing for tonight, okay?”

“Okay!” Eistir and Hwan said at the same time.

Hwan was the first to disengage from his mother’s hug, and Veers crouched in front of him. “Hello again!”

The boy smiled, showing off his tiny front teeth and all the gaps in them. He threw his arms around Veers’ neck. His legs, however, were at just the right height to knee Veers in the crotch. “You know what, little man?” Veers held him and lifted him as he rose to his feet. “This is much better.”

Hwan squealed and burbled into his ear, “I love you!”

“Oh, boy.”

“And... when I grow up...” Hwan squeezed him tighter, and Veers had to pry the little hands from his collar. “...I wanna marry you.”

Veers and Ailsa exchanged a look. She slapped a hand over her mouth before laughter burst out.

Eistir said, “Yes, General, Hwan has a crush on you. You shouldn’t have told him you are real.”

“Does he even know what being married means?”

The girl’s eyes widened. “It means that you live together, and you kiss... and you buy him presents...” She tugged at Ailsa’s dress. “Mom, mom, quick, what else do you and dad do?”

“You’ve covered all the basics, bug, don’t worry.” Ailsa fought to smother another fit of hilarity.

In the corner of his eye, Veers noticed someone stepping close to them. He turned, expecting Baron Valon, and found himself facing Zev.

Eleven years, and that furious grimace on the boy’s face hadn’t changed since the day Veers had come home to Denon after learning of Eliana’s death. Come home several days too late for the funeral.

Something shrivelled and crumpled inside Veers, deep in his flesh. He held the child in his arms tighter, closer to him, not sure if to protect Hwan or himself. This angry man in front of him—had he really been his little boy, his Zevvie, long ago? So long ago that time might’ve never existed at all.

“Dad,” said Zev. “We have to talk.” His voice was raucous. Adding to that the bleary eyes and the stained uniform—a plain service naval dress—he seemed drunk. Veers was ashamed of his son being drunk in front of a goddess and her children, and ashamed of himself for thinking ill of Zev even if he had every right to do so.

“I’m sorry, milady.” Veers moved Hwan to Ailsa’s arms; as soon as Veers let go of him, Hwan started crying.

Eistir was peering at Zev from behind the skirt of her mother’s dress. “It’s the stinky guy, mom. Call security on him!”

“So you must be Zevulon—” Ailsa began.

“Dad, let’s go.” It wasn’t a plea or a polite request. It was an order. Soft-spoken, but harsh. The soldier in Veers responded without even thinking, following him through the dancers. Shame and rationality kicked back in as Zev pushed couples aside; Veers just dodged them and muttered apologies.

They exited the ballroom and arrived into the patio; no guest was left there, and the droids hadn’t started collecting the used tableware yet. Rain drummed on the glass panes.

Zev pulled a chair from a table and sagged down to sit. Veers flinched, ready to leap to support him if he fell.

“Sit down, dad. Here in front of me.” Zev kicked a neighbouring chair to the side. “We really need to talk.”

“You said that already, Lieutenant.” Veers sat down and stared him up, forcing himself into hardass general mode. “Are you drunk?”

Zev laughed, then broke into a short fit of coughing. “Somewhat,” he croaked. “You?”

“You better have a compelling reason for behaving like a Tusken raider—”

Zev burst into laughter again, louder, bending over and covering his face. His shoulders shook in a way Veers didn’t like, far too much like shivers.

“Zev, what in blazes is wrong with you?”

“Nothing... nothing... oh, fuck...!” Shaky and flush-faced, he sat up leaving his legs spread at awkward angles and planting an elbow on the table so heavily the half-empty and empty wine glasses clinked. Puberty was still having its way with his skin, and tonight it was doing its worst: Zev’s cheeks and forehead were greasy, his zits swollen and reddened.

“You may want to start,” Veers said, “by explaining what’s so damn funny. Come on, boy, make your old man laugh, too.”

“You. Demanding a _compelling reason_. As if it’s not clear I don’t like to watch you romance a pretty Kuati lady.”

“I wasn’t—!” Veers shot a look at the ceiling. He couldn’t see cameras, just raindrops streaming down the glass panes and utter blackness beyond. “I wasn’t romancing Baroness Valon. Just being sociable.”

“Dad, please. Haven’t you seen her ass?”

“Lieutenant, decorum!”

“Quit the fucking Hero of Hoth act, okay? There’s just you and me here, and no obnoxious Press Corps bitches with holocameras.”

“Don’t speak of Lieutenant Kijé in those terms ever again.”

“How old is that bitch—I mean,” he smirked at Veers’ deepening frown, “how old is _she_?”

“Twenty-three standards.”

“My age range, huh.”

“You might want to take a page out of her book—”

“You would have liked a daughter like her. You would have. Much better than this son you’ve got.” Zev stabbed his chest with a thumb. The smirk on his greasy, acne-ridden face was gone, replaced by wide-eyed blankness. “Tell me the truth, dad. Okay? Tell me the truth.”

“Zev, you’re being flat-out stupid now, but if you insist, no, I wouldn’t have wanted her as a daughter instead of you. That is the truth. We might not get along but you are still my son, and I love you.”

Silence. The din of music in the ballroom had ceased. Raindrops pelted down the pane. Neither of them breathed. An icy draught crept up Veers’ spine.

“Dad.” Zev drew in and let out a slow sigh, shook his head. “You shouldn’t lie to me. You don’t lie to people you love.”

The creeping chill spread inside Veers’ chest. He tensed his muscles to staunch the tremor before it started. “Zevulon, in my entire life I have never, ever told someone I loved them without meaning it with every single atom of myself. That includes you, and your mother.” And the admiral of Death Squadron. He couldn’t hold back a shiver; his mouth twitched. “How could you _think_ I would lie to you about this, of all things?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I examined the cold, hard facts, and came to a conclusion. I have been examining them since you sent me to Prefsbelt.”

At the prompting of another shiver, Veers shifted on the chair. Something fell out of his pocket and Zev’s eyes followed it. “It’s all about _that_ again, son? You—”

“You did it because you thought it was in my best interest, because you thought it would help me overcome grief and anger management issues and depression and blablabla, whatever the school counsellor wrote in my file. You did it out of concern and love, I’m well aware of it.”

Veers shrank against the back of the chair. He wanted to raise his voice, defend himself, as if he was being accused of a false fault. Yet, Zev spoke so calmly about it, and Veers knew it was the truth. Maybe he was uncomfortable with having several years’ worth of unarticulated bad blood laid bare in front of him, and that was all. If that was the case, his discomfort was cowardice speaking, and fuck that to the ninth hell; he would brave everything that Zev flung at him, no matter if it made him shake in his boots.

“But in the end, you failed to realise I didn’t need that sort of concern and that sort of love. You might as well have shot me, it would have been the same to me.”

Veers wanted to scream. His jaw sealed itself shut instead, teeth clenching and squeezing the inside of his ears.

“Don’t bother telling me you are sorry about that, all of it. I already know. It still doesn’t matter.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Veers said through his gritted teeth, and cringed at how stupid a self-defence that was.

“Facts, dad. Facts. What has the Navy turned me into, hmm? This. My former CO—he was a torturer, did you know?”

“You chose your career path, Zev.” Not just a mediocre officer, but a thought policeman of the worst sort.

“Irrelevant. You gave me to _them_ first. It was your decision. And I am not cut out to be a battlefield hero, but I know how to make sentients really, really hurt. Your little boy Zevvie, remember him? He is going to be the thought police officer on a Star Destroyer, tasked with deciding whether or not to schedule an appointment with an IT-O droid for his crewmates.” Zev laughed. “You crack me up, you know? The irony... You turned me into this. You hurt me by trying to heal me. You hurt mom, by marrying her while you had already chosen to marry the army. You hurt her by not even showing up at her funeral. Ah-ha, by the way, here’s a curiosity: according to Hrönir belief, she isn’t dead. She can’t die, because of you.”

“Yes, I know I fucked up that blasted funeral, your grandparents never missed a chance to remind me—”

“Have you ever not brushed it off as some hokey religion balderdash, and considered the implications?” Zev bent over.

Veers made a start on his seat. The chair screeched and skidded backwards a few centimetres.

Zev sat back up holding a pack of Jamel Filters. “Of course you never have.” He studied the cigarette pack, the logo, the Human-specific health warnings. _Please don’t ask me where I got them, please, please, please, don’t make me confess, don’t make me lie to you_. “Your commanding officer strangles sentients through Force magic, and yet you won’t accept an afterlife where your wife can’t pass on to eternal rest because you kept her tied to the marriage vow. Do you ever dream of her, dad?”

“...Yes.”

“What are the dreams like?”

 _I am home. She is, too, and so is Firmus. We all are in love_. His stomach roiled. “I... I killed her. On Corellia, during a counterinsurgency operation.” Confessing that nightmare, on the contrary, took the edge off of the nausea.

“Accurate. More accurate than I expected of you. I supposed you’d dream of her in a happy setting where she is alive, and happy to be with you.”

“Zev, she’s dead. Neither faith nor the Force can bring her back. Trust me, I have seen enough dead to claim some expertise on the topic. I... I know it can be a comfort for you, but...” The half-empty wine glasses someone else had left on the table seemed, all of a sudden, very appealing.

“It isn’t a comfort. She is not happy, she is suffering, in death as she did in life, and that whole suffering is your fault.”

“But I—”

“Dad, I told you not to lie.”

“...I didn’t want her to suffer. I really didn’t. But I must honour my oath. I am an officer of the Imperial Army—fuck.” He grabbed the closest glass and downed it.

When he put it down, he saw Zev’s eyes on him, serious, focused. His hands slowly rolled the cigarette pack around. “Why did you drink that?”

“I can’t bloody stand the taste of nerfshit in my mouth.”

“If you had left the army when mom was still alive, we wouldn’t be here tonight.”

“On Kuat? Definitely not.”

It was a damn stupid joke, but Zev smiled. “It is too late now, dad. If you retired to civilian life now, I wouldn’t care. It wouldn’t help me in the least.”

“Zev, if there is anything I can do to... to at least try to make up a bit...”

“Hmm. Let me think.”

It shouldn’t too difficult to arrange an honourable discharge. Veers did his own thinking while Zev opened the pack, extracted a cigarette and the lighter, lit the cig up and put the pack into his trousers pocket. There was music again in the ballroom. It also shouldn’t be difficult to enrol Zev at a university; there were scholarships and special terms available to veterans and to children of veterans. Universities used to be hotbeds of Rebel propaganda and infiltration, but they had been made into safe places; Kijé could testify to that. He might ask her for advice.

“Zev, how about—”

“I’ve got it. You need to die.”

The music from the ballroom was slow and low, coming to Veers’ ears in louder staccatos between bars of silence. The rain kept pouring on; distant thunder rumbled, a long and deep sound like a mournful wail.

“You’re drunk, boy.” And Veers couldn’t stop the tremor anymore.

“Not enough to be joking. You need to die, dad. I want you to.”

“ _That_ would make you happy?”

“Yes. I believe it would.”

“Zev, if you think your mother—”

“We aren’t talking about what she would want. I am telling you what you can do to make _me_ happy, dad. You could listen, for once. You know, we might have never reached this point if you had listened before.”

“Zev... there hasn’t been a single day in my life I didn’t regret everything. What I did, how I did it.”

“Facts, dad. How many times do I have to tell you?”

Veers blinked through a mist of tears. He gazed down at the shiny blur of brass on his chest, the blind spot where the Gree campaign medal used to be. He shouldn’t have handed that over. Forgetting, moving on—he didn’t deserve that. No more children, no wife, no husband, no goddess and no Piett. His airway tightened as if in the thrall of a Force choking. “Zev, I’m asking you one last time. To be sure. Do you really want me to die?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Zev coughed, took the cigarette off his mouth and frowned at it.

“Fine.” It wasn’t fine. His body quivered as if it was falling apart, torn to shred in slow motion by an immaterial detonation. “You know, today I considered quitting the Army.”

“Pity you didn’t consider it eleven standards ago.”

“I will stay in active service instead, risk my life until I lose it. Are... are you happy with that?”

“Hmm, yeah. But in case you survive the war, would you mind giving me your word of honour as an officer that you will kill yourself? Just in case.”

Veers’ mind projected the Mandalorian power couple holoflick, the boredom and senselessness of peacetime. It was a silly movie but it had gotten that one thing damn right. Why should he want to live and go through that, anyway? Without Eliana, without Piett. “You have my word.”

“Really?” The question and the eyes Zev gave him were those of a hopeful child again. _You’ll be home for Life Day, dad? Really?_

Veers nodded.

“I’d like to have some proof, okay?”

“Proof?”

“Give me your hand.”

After a hesitant twitch, Veers lifted his right arm, ready to shake Zev’s hand. Zev held the half-smoked cigarette between his lips, took Veers’ hands in both of his and pulled the glove down to bare the wrist.

“Zev, what are you—”

“If you love me and if you haven’t been lying to me, don’t move.” Zev pinched the cig between forefinger and thumb. “Don’t even make a sound. Okay, dad?”

No, no, no, for stars’ sake, fucking hells _no_. He looked into Zev’s eyes. The same as his mother’s, half-lidded in concentration. “...Yes.”

He perceived the motion, the incandescent tip of the cig glimmering at the lower margin of his vision, a whiff of its smoke, of Piett’s smell.

Pain stabbed through his wrist, white-hot and bone-deep and piercing through to the other side, shooting up his arm all the way to the elbow and down to his fingertips, like an electrocution. He hunched and almost slipped off the chair, opened his mouth and choked back a gasp.

The acute pain winked out of existence, leaving a duller, pulsing one in its wake.

Zev flicked the snuffed cigarette to the floor. A server droid sped towards them. Zev let go of Veers’ hand and Veers hurried to pull up his glove, cover the charred red wound.

“Lieutenant Veers,” the droid said, “please refrain from throwing waste anywhere but in the dedicated bins. Spent cigarettes match the definition of waste.”

“Apologies. I’ll go find a waste bin.” Zev scooped up the cigarette stub and rose. The frown on his face had relaxed into a hint of a smile. “Thank you, dad. You have been good to me at last.”

Veers held his wounded hand to his chest. Zev leaned over towards him; Veers stayed motionless without breathing and received a pat on the shoulder and a peck on the cheek. He didn’t dare watch Zev walk away.

The burn cooled to a localised ache, that flared up as soon as he tried to flex his fingers. A gaping, dark void had opened inside him, dulling the light of his surroundings and deepening the blackness outside the rain-spattered windows. With the void came a tired calmness, a taste of his future death. His soldier’s mind could file it as a mission, General Veers’ final mission, and be fine with it. Could Zev possibly have any idea of the good he had just done to him, giving him that mission—an order, structure—to grasp onto? Tears prickled at his eyes again.

Using his left hand he snatched a crumpled, stained napkin and dabbed at them with a clean corner of fabric. He threw the napkin back on the table, steeled himself until the burn under his glove faded, and got to his feet. The music in the ballroom went on. He marched to the gate, told a server droid to summon his driver and get the speeder ready, and stepped outside, the pane sliding open to let him pass.

The server droid tried to recall him, but the mechanical voice was soon lost in the roar of rainwater. Icy cold water streamed down him, soaked up his uniform, and his feet sank in mud as he plodded into the night and fumbled for his comlink.

It beeped for several seconds. “Yes?” answered a voice he didn’t know.

“...Mrs Tantor?”

“Who is that?”

“General Veers, your husband’s commanding officer.”

“Oh... stars, sorry, I... you wish to speak to Brenn, I suppose?”

“Yes, ma’am, please.”

A static-like sound that could be a sigh. “Look, he isn’t available now. His mother on Corellia pushed his father down a flight of stairs and he’s at the comm with her now... and he isn’t supposed to be on duty for the time being, is he?”

Veers overheard Tantor’s voice over his wife’s and the rush of the rain. He was shouting, Veers couldn’t hear what.

“Brenn isn’t being called up back to work yet, is... is he?”

“No, don’t worry. You don’t have to tell him I’ve commed. Good night, ma’am.” He shut the comlink.

By the time he reached the parking area, his uniform was drenched and his boots tracked mud and mush of leaves into the speeder.

“Let’s go home,” he told the driver.

“Yes, sir. Shall I turn the heater on?”

“No.” He was shaking and couldn’t feel his toes, but could very much feel a couple old wounds reawakening as rheumatisms. “Only if you are cold.”

“Yes, sir.” As the sergeant drove the speeder outside the parking lot, warm air began streaming. He dozed off in the warmth a few times on the way home, flinching awake and not remembering where he was and why his hand hurt.

It wasn’t raining in Kuat City. The driver dropped him off at the gate of Kyber Heart Residence; he went up to his apartment and then out to the terrace, a trail of low-intensity lights automatically turning on in his path through the living room. His cap, boots, gloves, belt and tunic in a clang of medals scattered to the floor behind him. His socks soaked up rainwater, but the sky was clear. You could see starlight and starship lights.

He was about to stand by the parapet and look down, when a rattle of glass and a snarl that ended in “ _blastin’ poodoo!_ ” deviated his steps towards the plant pots between his terrace and the neighbouring apartment’s.

He squinted in the night light, making out a figure that stumbled around the table. “Firmus?”

“Get blasted, ye too!”

Glass rattle again. Piett slumped to the floor.

Veers sighed, leapt over the plant vases and ran to check on him. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Hells, what have you been mixing your grog with?”

“’Twas naw grog, ye blast-brained cunt,” Piett blubbered, his face mashed to the tiles. “Spiced tihaar.”

Veers groped around on the cold wet tiles, touched a glass and shoved it away. He sniffed at the prickly liquid on his fingertips: it almost triggered a heave in his stomach. “All right, sailor, we aren’t on the best of terms right now but I’d rather you not die of hypothermia here...”

“Naw, lemme. Off wi’ yer hands...”

Veers grabbed Piett’s inert form under the armpits and lifted him to his feet. Piett remained limp. “No worries, I’m just going to take you inside. Then you can finish your drinking binge.”

“Lemme...” Piett let out a whimper and rolled his head to rest it on Veers’ shoulder. His teeth chattered and his breath reeked like a vat of chemical solvent.

The living room lights came to life, low and easy on the Human eye. Veers led Piett to the couch, helping him to sit and then to lie down, shivering and curled up on one side in the recovery position. Piett’s tunic was open, his cap and gloves gone, and both the tunic and the undershirt were stained. He touched Piett’s forehead and his hands, all cold and clammy.

“Get lost, berk.” Piett’s eyes were closed. He might as well be already half-asleep.

“Sure thing. But I’m getting you a blanket first.” Veers ran to procure one from the bedroom wardrobe, and spread it over Piett. “You awake?”

“Blast me.” Piett took a few laboured breaths. Veers readied himself to jump aside in case he was about to puke, but the crisis passed.

Better get a bowl ready, just to be sure.

“Max?”

“I’m here,” Veers replied as he rummaged into a kitchenette cupboard.

“Stay, please.”

“Of course, of course.” Veers returned to the couch and placed on the floor beside it the biggest bowl he’d found.

“I ain’t well, damn it,” Piett croaked.

“Understatement of the century.” Veers went to the terrace gate.

“Max, please...”

After a moment’s hesitation and a deep sigh, Veers closed the gate and sat down on an armchair facing the couch. “How was the party for you?”

“Bleedin’ hells, Max, I think I’m dying.”

“I know the feeling.”

Another whimpering breath. “I’m bloody sorry, Max. Ye deserve better’n me.”

Veers thought of Ailsa, and of the dismay on Piett’s face as he watched them together. “I think we have deserved each other, sailor.”

“I luv ye, Max—please, please don’t leave me...”

“Indeed. I better not leave you while you’re so piss-drunk.” Veers slipped his wet socks off and sagged into a more comfortable position on the armchair.

Silence settled in. The quivering body under the blanket became stiller, his breath steadying into a snore.

 _Okay, soldier. Time for your curfew_. Veers didn’t move. What if Piett woke up later, at the lowest end of the alcoholic mood swing, and nobody was around to help him? _Fuck, Max, nobody was around to help you either_. Like those night cycles he would wake up screaming and thrashing, the nightmare realer than reality for several tachycardic seconds.

Perhaps there was nothing between him and Piett, but an act of kindness could still find some room. Just kindness, nothing more, like being nice to Captain Piett after Admiral Ozzel had jerked him around.

The wound on his wrist ached anew, now that his brain had nothing else to focus on. The pain was bearable. As natural as Yllagim bringing sunshine after Yllnaten had brought the night and the storm, affection stirred within him all over again as he watched Piett sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lengthy graphic depiction of messy drunkenness and some disturbing non-con imagery/references in this chapter. Forewarned is forearmed.

Struggling against the Huttfucking son-of-a- _schutta_ blaster-up-yer-arse restraints was useless. It left Piett panting, too winded to growl profanities, and just as stuck as when Veers had abandoned him.

The comlink was useless, too. He blinked sweat from his eyes and glared up at it. His hands, curled around the comlink, were growing numb from the constriction.

Veers was going to pay for this. Pay dearly. Regret having been born with a pair of bollocks.

He inhaled, held his breath and exhaled, over and over several times. Imagined that the clear oxygen were cigarette smoke.

The panicky rage receded at last. Now, on to tackling one impossible task at a time.

First, he had to call for help. _Trusted_ help. Someone who wouldn’t mouth off later or could be coerced into not mouthing off. His mind cycled through lower and upper ranks; it considered Chiraneau for a moment and his skin crawled. Finally, he settled on the least Force-awful option.

With limp fingers he slowly dialled the number. The comlink pinged for several beeps. “Come on, pick up the bloody—”

“Cap’n Sarkli. Who the kriff’s speakin’?”

“Admiral Piett. Is that how you answer all your calls?”

“Aw! Sorry, uncle—Admiral, sir. I was in the middle of a situation—”

“We need to speak in private. Now.”

Haidar muttered something. A feminine voice made an affirmative monosyllabic noise.

“Okay, uncle, I’m all ears.”

“You need to come to my apartment faster than lightspeed.”

“What? We’re on our way to Jeskeith Manor!”

“I don’t care if you break every single Kuati traffic law in existence, just turn around and get here.”

“Yer payin’ the fines?”

“Yes, I’m paying the fines and buying you a night at any A.F.A.R. joint of your choice. For you and your girlfriend too, if she’s into it. Hurry up, Captain, it’s an order.”

Haidar cackled. “Gimme fifteen standard minutes.”

The other voice, recognisable as Lieutenant Kijé’s, said, “Fifteen minutes to do what?”

Haidar ended the comm.

After fifteen standards minutes that felt like so many standard years despite the holoclock on the nightstand, a jiggle at the front door startled Piett. Boots stomped on the floor.

“Captain,” Piett tried not to sound like he was crying for help, “have you come alone?”

“Think I’m a bloody wermo?” Haidar replied, his footfalls drawing in fast. He stumbled to a stop on the bedroom threshold. “Buggerin’ ol’ Boonta...”

“Untie me. _Now_.”

Haidar rushed to the bedpost. He prodded the knot, snapping his tongue in disapproval. “Where in blazes did ye pick up the whore? A Jawa on spice coulda tied ye up better an’ safer’n this.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“An’ he left ye here like this? Can’t fuckin’ believe me eyes. Did he steal anythin’?”

“No. Yes, actually; my cigarettes.”

“Bloody _haran_. Ye stick to Jamel Filters or moved on to a fancier brand?”

“Jamels.”

“Cheapskate. There ye go!” The knot came undone.

Piett’s arms dropped into his lap and he sighed in relief.

Haidar cleared his throat. “I’ll go get ye a towel.”

Massaging his wrists and ignoring the stabs in his stiff knees, Piett limped to the bathroom. He pulled his gloves off, his sleeves up, and splashed tap water and soap on his face.

He grimaced as he studied the front of his tunic in the mirror.

“Cold water, uncle,” Haidar said, leaning on the threshold with his arms crossed. “Take yer tunic off, hold the stained bits upside down—”

“I _know_ how to remove a spunk stain, thank you very much.” Piett unbuttoned his tunic and took it off. Some stains washed off fast, others demanded hard scrubbing and many frustrating minutes. In the end, the tunic lay in a soggy, crumpled lump on the sink’s edge.

“Huh, uncle, if you have a spare one—”

“I don’t.” He grabbed the wet rag and pushed past Haidar, back to the bedroom.

“Oi, ‘s that a tumble dryer?” Haidar called excitedly from the bathroom.

“It’d still bloody need ironin’, wermo! Naw time fer that.” Piett hung the wet tunic on the back of a chair, retrieved his usual service uniform from the wardrobe and dressed up again in the clean garments. “I received a comm from Lord Vader. A very urgent one. It didn’t leave me any time to prepare for the dinner. Understood, bukee?”

Haidar’s face was unreadable, too blank to be natural. Of course Piett knew the expression, being a skilled practitioner of it when externalising emotions was out of the question. Haidar asked, “Want me to track that whore down?”

Piett’s heart sped up with a flutter of fear; for himself, his own reputation, and for Veers, although he didn’t deserve it. “No.”

“There might be DNA traces left on that tunic.”

Piett strutted to the front door. “Hurry up, we’re late.”

“You’re welcome, eh.”

“Since when do you expect thanks for executing an order?”

“At least yer buyin’ me whores.”

Haidar’s accent, the phrasing, and the prize he’d promised for Haidar’s help, all of it yanked Piett back to Axxila: corrupted officers accepting gifts in exchange for favours. Had he just become one of them?

“Is Lieutenant Kijé with you?” he asked Haidar during the lift ride to the ground floor.

Haidar threw his arms up. “I didnae do nawthin’! She needed a ride to the dinner, I provided it. Helpin’ a colleague out, is all.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

Haidar crossed his arms and huddled into a corner of the lift. “Aye, right.”

The gesture and posture had much more of Attica in them than Caleb Sarkli. Piett considered telling Haidar, then kept his mouth shut. The lad had better not get cocky.

Out of the lift, they made their way to the compound gate and Haidar steered Piett towards a parked speeder. There were two: one with a military driver who sprang out at attention as soon as she recognised the admiral, the other with Lieutenant Kijé peering out of the forward passenger window.

“Why don’t ye come wi’ us, uncle?” Haidar muttered. “So you’ll see I ain’t doin’ nothing disreputable.” It was a challenge, not a kind offer.

“I know you won’t.”

“How? Ye don’t know the first damn thing ‘bout me, what I was up to after I ran away, or what I did for the Empire, the poodoo that won’t lemme sleep at night...” Haidar stopped, and Piett did too. They stared at each other under a streetlight. The lamp hung right above Haidar, and in the bright yellow light he resembled a target ready to be fired at.

Piett ran a quick tactical analysis: Haidar was offended, and had seen him in a vulnerable state for which explanations had been insufficient; if offended further, Haidar might become uncooperative. Not good. Piett turned to the driver. “Thank you, Sergeant, I will travel with Captain Sarkli. You may follow at your leisure and drive me back into town when the party is over.”

“Yes, sir.” A smile ghosted on the driver’s face. Her brain must be already processing tactics for swiping free food and drinks.

Piett stepped closer to Haidar and lowered his voice, “Let us be very clear on this, nephew: I don’t want to think anymore you are your rotten father’s rotten son, or that it is your destiny to repeat his mistakes. If I keep falling into that prejudice, I damn well apologise and will try to do better.”

“I know it ain’t true, but thank ye for tryin’.”

“And I’m coming with you now because we are family. Understood?”

Haidar smirked. “Makin’ sure I won’t mouth off to Annice, eh?”

“Lieutenant Kijé is from Naboo; even if you did mouth off, I doubt a botched bondage act would shock her.”

“Fair point.”

As soon as Kijé saw them approach, she slammed her hands all around the speeder door controls.

“Easy where you are, Lieutenant,” Piett said. He climbed into the rear seat behind her, as Haidar slid into the driver’s seat and started up the engine.

Among the backlit navigation instruments that sprang to life on the console, there was a clock. Piett glanced at the time on it. “I guess this speeder’s too small to carry a hyperdrive engine, Captain?”

“’Fraid so, sir.” The engine roared and the speeder lurched into the roadway. Klaxons blared behind them, soon lost in the distance.

“Admiral, can he really drive like this?” Kijé asked, her finely orange-lined eyes darting looks at his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

“An’ what if I can’t? Nobody’ll have the guts to press charges against two thought policemen and Lord Vader’s favourite admiral.”

To be fair, Haidar drove fast and arrogant but nowhere near Piett’s definition of wild. For a few standard minutes, Piett relaxed in his seat in the hope they would make up for the time lost. Then the traffic slowed to a halt, lumbered on for a couple metres, halted again. Haidar flipped over a real-time street holomap. A Kuati police swoop bike buzzed by over the unmovable carpet of speeders.

Kijé swiped over thr holographic buttons on the map. “There’s nothing on the traffic news feed.”

“Try the restricted ISB channel,” Haidar said. “Keep swipin’ that way, now flip.”

A red-lined pop-up window appeared; the timestamp eight standard minutes ago. Piett leaned forward to read the text in the window: a journalist for a non-aligned holopaper had found himself unemployed after the Café Select attack, whatever that was; the journalist had proceeded to set himself on fire in the middle of the roadway, one kilometre away from their current location.

“Bloody _haran_!” growled Haidar. “I try to do my colleagues a favour, and it comes back to bite me in my arse. Why in blazes do I bother at all...”

While Piett’s brain processed the words _colleagues_ and _favour_ , his vision registered, as indifferent as a camera, Kijé’s hand reaching out to touch Haidar’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “Those people deserved what they got.”

“Nobody deserves to burn alive, chik. ‘S one of the worst ways to die.”

“Well, it’s atrocious that the Rebellion convinced a sentient to do such a thing for their rotten cause, isn’t it?”

“Captain,” Piett hissed, “ _you_ had a part in this mess?”

“‘Twas jus’ a bit of help my local colleagues asked for, in exchange for me runnin’ my own show on their lawn. How was I supposed to know one of ‘em indie press folks was goin’ to set himself on fire an’ cause a traffic jam?”

“Can’t you turn around? Drive over the sidewalk?”

“Naw, sir, I can’t.”

Piett pinched the bridge of his nose. “What about requisitioning a police speeder bike?”

“It’s forbidden to drive speeder bikes on the highway,” Kijé said in a quiet voice that tried hard to be unobtrusive and sounded all the more irritating for it.

“Chin up, uncle, the food won’t run out!”

“It’s not a matter of gobbling up free food, _Captain_. I am supposed to give a speech. I represent Lord Vader by proxy, and these are the people who keep my fleet up and running, including my very flagship. I’m not looking forward to playing politics, but it is something I _need_ to do, and I cannot take things for granted like Ozzel did, no, I have to fight tooth and nail for them. So yes, it _is_ vital that we get to that blasted rich folks party on time—”

“Oi, they’re movin’!”

The speeder in front of them inched forward.

Piett slapped Haidar’s shoulder where Kijé had gently touched him the moment before. “What’re ye waitin’ fer, a formal invitation? Speed up!”

The queue crawled on. Their speeder passed the highway entrance, where Haidar muttered a Huttese curse to the automated toll withdrawal. It was vile enough that Kijé shot him a horrified look.

Haidar noticed it. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

Piett wondered, with a disgusted shiver, if Haidar had detected it by dint of that weird sensitivity of lovers to their partner’s eyes on them. The one that made Veers whisper when they stood close, _Been enjoying the view of my afterburners, haven’t you, Admiral?_

“I don’t like it,” Haidar went on, “when they pull the moulehraa—”

“Money,” Piett snapped.

“When they pull my _money_ outta my pocket, an’ I ain’t handin’ it out on my own.”

“It’s okay,” said Kijé.

It was not okay by any means. Taking Haidar, this overgrown street urchin who spoke more Huttese than Basic, to a place like Jeskeith Manor was lightyears away from okay. Piett pressed a button on the speeder door to open the window; chilly air washed over him as he searched his pockets, found them empty, remembered why his cigs were gone. In his mind, he screamed the same vile Huttese profanity.

On the highway, the traffic dispersed and the speeder accelerated quickly. The wind spat a few raindrops on Piett’s face so he closed the window, wiping the droplets away with his sleeve. They were made of harmless clear water that contained no stinging acidic substances, but better be safe than sorry.

Lightning lit up the clouds in the distance. Neither stars nor starships were visible in the sky. Piett felt alone, small, naked in his inadequate uniform. He forced himself to focus on the trees lining the highway, evenly spaced and evenly trimmed; the regularity was soothing. Haidar and Kijé had enough good sense not to speak.

The peace broke as soon as Jeskeith Manor came into view.

“Bloody hells!” Haidar glanced into the rear-view mirror. “Sorry, uncle—Admiral. I’d seen holos of the place but it’s plenty bigger in reality.”

“Yes, today we looked the pictures up together,” Kijé said. “All those that we saw on the HoloNet were taken in daylight. It’s so much more beautiful like this... It has something of Theed.”

The island-palace was festooned in lights as if inviting an air strike.

“Likin’ it already, eh, Lieutenant? You too, Admiral?”

“We don’t have time for sightseeing, Captain. Drive faster.”

“...Aye, sir.”

On Axxila, only crime lords could afford houses that big. Piett wasn’t stupid enough to let that slip in front of two COMPNOR officers, even if they were Haidar and Kijé. Nevertheless, he imagined the Lady targeting this island and deluging it with turbolasers. Incinerated sentients buried under debris couldn’t mind his late arrival.

A hoverlantern droid guided them into the parking area. Haidar looked around and snorted. “Damn, it’s full. Holy poodoo, is that Naboo chrome?”

“Where?” Kijé asked. “Oh, there! I don’t know but,” she craned her neck to get a glimpse of the parked speeder, “it might be.”

“How ‘bout instead of goin’ to dinner we stay here, steal one of these rich people’s speeders—”

“Quit the inappropriate jokes, Captain,” Piett rumbled.

Haidar fell silent for a few seconds. “You’re right, sir. We shouldn’t say naw to a lot of free food.”

“It wasn’t a reference to living through famine on Axxila and being grateful for the abundance we have now.”

“Ah.” That shut Haidar up for good.

The droid led them to a free slot, far behind at the edge of the parking area, and they got out of the speeder into the cold night. Thin drizzle pricked every centimetre of bare skin. A thick, fresh smell of greenery hung in the air. How in blazes could people like Veers crave this, after months in the recycled air of a Star Destroyer? It got a bit stuffy on the _Executor_ , all right, but it was clean and safe. Here, Piett had to make an effort to overcome instinctive fear and breathe in normally this foul organic atmosphere.

“Which way now?” Piett asked the droid, fighting not to let his teeth chatter. His breaths made puffs of condensation.

“Please follow me _._ ”

They did. At least, Piett did; he didn’t spare a look back to Haidar and Kijé. They weren’t his problem. “Couldn’t we walk faster?” he told the droid, which floated forwards at a speed a Wol Cabasshite could have caught up to. “I’m dreadfully late.”

“My programming instructs me to proceed at a set speed to ensure your safety, Admiral. The speed is calculated on average Human body mass, and probability of slipping on wet ground _._ ”

“Maybe I wish to get off of the wet ground as soon as possible.” Piett’s left foot slipped on a muck-slick pebble. He stomped his foot backwards to save his balance, squelching into a muddy puddle all the way to his boot ankle. His body continued walking but reality flickered around his mind, an Axxilan soggy day replacing the Kuati night, the corrosive substances in the mud burning through the rope soles and canvas uppers of his kid shoes.

“It is for your safety, Admiral,” the droid re-anchored him to Kuat, adulthood and admiralty, just in time before the ghost pain of the burn lanced up his legs.

Piett wasn’t in the mood for being grateful. “Did you include in the calculation the possibility that my clothes are getting wet and I may catch bronchitis?”

“Of course, sir.”

This was punishment for arriving late, but he didn’t deserve it: it had been all Veers’ fault. What if that bastard had been telling them, the rich and the powerful and the higher-ranking-than-him, about Admiral Piett tied up to a bedpost with cum on his face? Omitting the detail that the cum was his, of course.

Piett’s teeth chattered harder and he clenched his jaw. As soon as the droid led him to the lit path out of the parking area, he broke into a run. His stumbled onto something hard, maybe a tree root, managed not to fall, staggered on at a slower pace.

The path emerged onto an empty lawn, larger than the command bridge on the _Executor_. Hovering tents shielded empty buffet tables on one side. Festoons shone on the façade of the house, and interior light seeped through the transpariglass panes encircling the patio. Officers at dining tables sat there, the mealtime din muffled but audible.

“Oi, uncle, wait up!”

He didn’t. There was no time to waste. A gate in the glass panes slid open as soon as he stepped in front of it. A server droid flew to him, projected a scanning beam towards Piett’s code cylinder, and a little light on the droid’s chest panel flashed green. “Welcome, Admiral Piett. You have a reservation in the VIP area. Please follow me.”

“Thank you.” _For not kicking me out right away_.

The patio smelled of steak, roasted vegetables, and full-bodied red wine. Piett stared forward and avoided casting glances to the tables. The droid led him through a hangar-sized hall, decorated with Imperial and Kuati flags and the Jeskeith crest. A group of Humans in dark formalwear were sitting on a podium, getting out of their cases musical instruments that Piett for an instant and a heart jump mistook for heavy blasters.

Past this music room, the droid had him stand in front of a three-metre-tall door, where the lock scanned his code cylinders. The door slid barely ajar.

“Are you serious?” Piett glared at the lock. “Open it wider.”

The server droid chimed in, “Admiral, for safety reasons it is impossible to open this door fully unless all the guests are leaving the room _._ ”

“This doesn’t sound safe at all to me.”

“Please cross into the dining room or the door will close and your access will be denied.”

Piett’s right hand groped for a blaster at his hip he’d not worn since he was a lieutenant. Stars, he needed to calm down. He needed not to trigger his inner Axxilan into life. And he needed a drink.

He writhed through the open sliver of doorway, grateful for his diminutive body size and unhappy at having to suck his paunch in nonetheless. The hall he emerged in was as big as the previous, but so brightly lit, so crowded and abuzz with conversation, that he froze standing with his back against the door.

The closing door gave him a push and he stumbled forward. A firegems-dotted black dress and a bosom bare to just above the nipples flashed before his eyes; he straightened, took a respectful step aside, and offered the woman his best Coruscanti clipped _apologies, ma’am_ while bowing his head. Politeness pandered to his shame and spared him having to look her in the face. She trotted away without a word, a half-full glass of emerald wine shining among the jewels.

“Uncle, it woulda been nice if ye’d waited up.”

Piett took a deep breath and turned towards Haidar. Kijé was wriggling through the door, unbelievably awkward for a lass so flat and reedy.

“That door is a just bit of a hassle to get through,” Haidar went on, his accent sanitised and voice low. Piett appreciated his effort; may the thousand blessings of Boonta be with Commandant Hux for teaching this Axxilan urchin to adapt to his surroundings, especially _civilised_ surroundings.

“I didn’t know you had VIP access,” Piett replied. “You do, don’t you?”

“Kijé does.”

Hearing her name on Haidar’s lips gave her the strength to yank herself out of the door, which shut behind her like the legs of a whore when you didn’t have enough creds. She staggered to Haidar’s side, patting and tugging at near-invisible creases on her uniform.

Haidar shrugged. “I simply bullied my way in, like a true thought policeman.” He spoke slower, too, like someone fluent in a second language that’s still foreign to him.

“If they kick you out, I’m going to pretend I don’t know you,” Piett said through gritted teeth.

“Beg your pardon, sir? I did not hear you.”

“Never mind, Captain. Kijé, how much do you know about Kuati dinner etiquette?”

“Ah... not much—” Her eyes flitted to Haidar, who gave her a quick nod. Kijé cleared her voice of the shy girl, letting Miss Propaganda take over. “We are very late. If we went to greet the master of the house and apologised without their prompting, that would seem doubly rude. Uh...” She glanced at the guests, the fear so blatant and raw on her impeccably painted face (Haidar had not kissed away her lipstick yet; another silent thank to Boonta for small graces) that Piett felt an urge to remind her, harshly, of the officer she was. “My... suggestion is, sir, to respectfully approach Lady Jeskeith and wait for her to greet you first.”

Good on her for picking up that the only guest of importance, out of the three of them, was him. _Heard that, Firmus? You’re important_. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Kijé’s shoulders sagged as she exhaled in relief. “You’re welcome, sir. Actually, if Lady Jeskeith and you should interact,” Piett didn’t like the _if_ , “I must be ready to...” She fumbled with a small pouch of orange-brown Naboo shaak leather hanging from her belt, until a portable holocamera came out of it.

“Admiral,” Haidar said, “I think this may interest you.” He waved at a server droid to float over and distribute its tray-load of sparkling wine among them. “Which way’s the food?” he asked the droid.

The droid’s camera eye, black and blank with mechanical contempt, rolled to stare him down. “I beg your pardon, sir?” Despite the robotic tone, the droid had a finer inflection than Haidar’s carefully constructed Core accent. Piett hadn’t meant to down his first drink in one go, but he did.

“Nah, mate, my bad.” Haidar pursed his lips and puffed out his chest, holding the wine glass between forefingers and thumb and sticking his pinkie out. “Would you mind letting us know where the dinner is being served?”

“I have just performed a scan on your code cylinder, Captain Haidar Sarkli. As you do not possess an official invitation, you are kindly requested to leave this room and make your way out—” As the droid blathered on, Haidar reached underneath it with his free hand and pulled something. The droid’s voice broke off, its eye blinked red and black a few times, then stayed red. The droid hovered, mute and immobile.

“Many thanks, we can find it on our own.” Haidar rolled the glass in his hand and tried a sip, his lips still ridiculously pursed.

Piett swapped his empty glass for a full one on the deactivated droid’s tray. Stars, he was going to need a far stronger quaff than sparkling emerald wine.

“Admiral, sir?” said Kijé. “I think the buffet table is over there.”

Hunger making his eyesight keener, Piett caught a glimpse of it at the far end of the room, in-between the insect-like scurrying of the guests: hover-plates stacked in pyramids, bearing food whose garish colours promised saccharine delights.

“Captain, Lieutenant, have a nice evening.” He started towards the table, and was pleased to hear just a _yessir_ as Haidar’s response to being left behind again. It was for his own good; if a server droid instantly singled Haidar out as a creature not belonging here, the lady of the house might comm her best acquaintances in the ISB, and send him back to wherever the hells he’d spent the past standard decade.

Piett faltered to a halt and his heart jumped to his throat as an officer in an Army dress uniform strolled in front of him, a hovertray in his... no, _her_ wake. A scent of hot grilled food wafted from the dish on the hovertray to tickle Piett’s nose. He couldn’t help turning his head and savouring the scent trail; also, stupid him for mistaking that woman for Veers. She was about thirty centimetres shorter than him, and her ass was far skinnier than his. General Shale, maybe?

He spotted the green of Army fine rags across the room, along with the light greys of the Navy, and not recognising Veers in any of those officers gave him a puzzling, growing disappointment tinged with anxiety. No _Millennium Falcon_ on the screens in the asteroid field, as it were.

He resumed his advance towards the buffet. The guests lounged on couches and plucked crumb-sized forkful of food from the hovertrays. So impractical. Even the greasiest and roughest mechanics on the Lady Ex had a mess hall and a proper table.

The server droid at the buffet table, a model resembling the bartenders in the Lady’s officers lounges, blinked at his code cylinders. “Welcome, Admiral Piett. What may I serve you?” The droid had a ringing, feminine voice that made one think of a cute lass around Kijé’s age. Or so it sounded to Piett because this droid had been the only one to give him an actual welcome so far.

“I’ll have this, please.” Piett pointed to a hovertray with chunky dumplings, as big as his fist, of white rice wrapped in an oily leaf. “And a glass of the strongest wine you have.”

“I suggest Cerean blood naiana wine, if you like reds, sir. However, I must point out that Toniray wine goes best with stuffed kshyyy-vines.”

“What in blazes are stuffed kshyyy-vines?”

The droid was silent, her arms deftly transferring a dumpling onto a smaller hovertray and pushing it towards Piett. _Oh_.

“Thanks,” he said. His skin crawled under the uniform; either it was his own embarrassment, or someone was glaring at him and at his gaffe. He didn’t wish to know. “The red will be fine.”

“As you wish, Admiral.” She picked up a bottle and an empty glass. By the time she had filled it and handed it to Piett, the stuffed kshyyy-vine was gone. The leaf tasted like boiled cardboard and the rice, so overcooked it had turned to floury mush in Piett’s mouth, was flavourless except for a vague trace of pepper.

“Thank you, droid.” He picked up the wine.

“Pardon me... Admiral Piett, is that you?”

He was going to face the humiliation anyway, but damn it, he’d have rather poured several more litres of alcohol into his bloodstream beforehand. “Yes, it is,” he said in his conciliating, unassuming tone for when Ozzel used to be around. The man who’d spoken to him at least was nicer-looking than the old fool. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Baron Toshiro Valon. It is an honour to meet you.” On this planet they used handshakes as greeting gesture, Piett had long ago been taught in a Core Worlds Culture academy class. Baron Valon offered him a well-manicured hand, which Piett took and shook; the man was easy enough on the eye that Piett regretted the politeness protocol didn’t involve any hand kissing.

“Likewise,” he told Valon. “I apologise for missing the start of the reception, but I had an urgent comm from Lord Vader, you understand.”

“No such thing as proper shore leave in Vader’s vocabulary, I suppose?”

Piett didn’t like that offhand remark, even if Valon, in his nobleman’s way, in all likelihood just meant to be nice. Or seemed so. “I am but a soldier, after all. War doesn’t take leaves.”

“Did he bother only you?”

_Bother_. He almost rolled his eyes.

Valon continued, “I had the pleasure of meeting General Veers tonight, and he didn’t mention any comms from Lord Vader.”

“Good on Veers that he isn’t an admiral.” He smiled along as Valon laughed; he knew from experience and from careful practice in front of the ‘fresher mirror that his face, right now, was the proper bland and space-pale sort of pleasant. No outer signs of hurt feelings.

“Oh, I think you owe him one. He covered for you with the speech.” Valon gestured at the server droid, swirling his slender fingers to point at the wine he wanted.

“Ah.” Alarm sirens blared in Piett’s mind. What had Veers done? What had he let Veers do? “Was it any good?”

“It was the Hero of Hoth speaking. What do you think?” Valon regaled him with another smile. Maybe this gentlemanly toff was crushing on Veers, like half of the Imperial-held Core.

Saving appearances with a nod, Piett looked away from the baron and his beauty, down into the red wine in a glass so polished it reflected his own image. If he focused he could see the plain uniform, the ugly aging face. The Hero of Hoth wanting a man like him... Absurd, absurd.

“If you could please come with me,” said Valon, “I will take you to him and you can thank him now. Besides, I’d love to introduce you to my wife. Don’t be afraid to talk naval tech to her; Baroness Valon doesn’t quite advertise it these days, but she has the heart of a ship geek.”

What Baroness Valon the ship geek might have to do with Veers, Piett couldn’t fathom. “Of course, Baron. Please lead the way.”

Valon wended his ambling way through the guests and Piett followed by his side. This was the first time in his life he was around so many well-dressed people, all Humans, and only a minority of them in uniform. If the latter formula had been reversed, like at his academy graduation ball, he wouldn’t have felt so watched and so out of place.

They skirted along a purple sofa, as long as a Star Destroyer mess hall table, with guests sitting and nattering and hovertrays lingering about, the half-finished food lying forgotten on the plates. Piett repressed the impulse to scoop leftovers up in his free hand; much to his mortification, it wasn’t pride or decorum that did the trick, but rather the self-reminder that if the stuffed kshyyy-vine was any indication, this fancy food tasted like poodoo.

“Ailsa, darling!” Valon called.

Veers was on the sofa. A child was sitting on his lap and a woman at his side. A drop-dead sort of woman, who was beaming at Veers and at the child.

Piett ambled on as if in a dream, the chattering background noise fading into a blur like the whirr and hum of a starship engine, which however didn’t drown out Valon’s next words, “Our final guest is here. Admiral, my wife, Baroness Ailsa Valon. And I suppose,” Valon turned to him, the smile on his face reminding Piett of a glinting vibroblade, “you don’t need introductions to General Veers.”

Veers said nothing; he only had eyes for the kid. Piett clenched his glass. If the blasted wee pedunkee would move away, he could splash the blood-red wine all over Veers’ infuriatingly clean dress uniform. Fair payback.

“Pleased to meet you,” Baroness Valon’s voice penetrated into his repressed fury like an enchantment. It didn’t dispel all the anger, but it smoothed off its sharpest edge, steadied his trembling glass hand.

“Pleased to meet you, milady,” he replied, his tone normal, bowing his head. In doing so, he could not help a look at Veers; his eyes were hard, as unreadable as those of his stony propaganda holoposter self, aimed at him like a sniper blaster just above the child’s fuzzy head.

Piett drank up the wine to ease a chilling, dark sensation sinking its claws in his stomach. A moment later, he remembered he had to keep his own face in check, and forced the small, wobbly muscles there into a neutral expression. “Good evening, General. Have you had a good time so far?”

“Excellent, sir.” _Because you weren’t around to ruin it_ , his face and tone and body language all spelled out. And because of the child in his arms, and the gorgeous woman beside him. It mattered kriff-all that the baroness was not his wife. She was _far_ more beautiful than the feisty, grinning redhead with seawater to her knees in the holo Veers had once shown him, in fact. Yet, familiarity surrounded her, Veers and the child, like menace and death did Lord Vader. She dabbed at the child’s drooling mouth with a tissue while Veers’ big hands held the tiny, squirming body upright.

Watching them made Piett’s eyes sting with tears. Huttfucking hells, _tears_.

“Thank you, Ailsa,” said Veers, then took to baby-talking at the brat. First-name basis with the lady. That sweet roll of Veers’ accent. Piett worked his jaw and shot a glare at Baron Valon, who instead of being jealous observed them with a pleased smile.

A shiver ran down Piett’s spine as Lady Valon cried out in delight, “Oh, sweet stars! Should you consider a career in babysitting, Max, please give me a call.”

_Max. Ailsa_.

Valon caught his stare, that was now lost in an unfocused, watery void. “Admiral, are you all right?”

“I’m sorry, Baron.” Piett blinked to clear his vision. His eyes wetted even more. “Lord Vader was not in a good mood. It rubbed off onto me.”

Veers cut in, “Oh, so you were late because you—”

“Had a very urgent comm, yes, General.” He couldn’t bear hearing more of that mockery in Veers’ voice, sweetened into a fake concern. Before Veers could pour more salt into the open wound, Piett spun on his heels and stomped off, wiping the moisture from his eyes as soon as his back was turned on Veers and his new girlfriend. Or boyfriend and girlfriend, since the baron seemed so devoid of jealousy. Boyfriend, girlfriend, and son. This must be what Veers had most wanted in life, perhaps more so than a peaceful, Rebels-free galaxy: a gooey model family straight out of an Imperial Parenthood Board commercial, all big smiles over the sumptuous breakfast table, an average of three brats and a fat tooka with a neck ribbon.

The guests he marched past either slanted him sideways looks—rather at his uniform than at him—or tore their faces away at his passage. At the buffet, a wall of people discussing vintages blocked his way in front of the wine droid.

A hand patted his back, then Haidar stepped forward next to him. “Found Lady Jeskeith,” Haidar said in a low voice, guaranteed to drown out in the wine aficionados’ chatter before it reached their ears. “Turn ‘round an’ keep goin’ to the left. Red dress. Stand there an’ wait until she’s in the mood for talkin’, like Annice... like Lieutenant Kijé said.”

“Thanks.”

“Ye hate ‘em too, eh, uncle?”

Nobody turned, nobody gasped in horror, nobody glared vibroblades in Piett’s direction, at the noise of that Outer Rim critter scampering here. Piett shot looks around, not daring to believe that nobody had noticed. For good measure, he pulled Haidar aside, farther from the wine aficionados (why was it taking those bastards so long to choose their quaff, were they hitting on the server droid or what?).

“Speak properly, damn it,” Piett hissed.

“Huh-uh, ye do.”

“No, Captain, I don’t. What is the point of that question?”

“The rich, uncle. Rich Coreworlders. Even if ye talk like ‘em, dress in Imperial greys, an’ ye made it to admiral... still ain’t ‘nuff; the lady’s goin’ to treat ye like yer a muckrat fresh outta the sewer an’ are dirtyin’ her dress jus’ by lookin’ at it.”

While Piett’s mouth spat out some automatic retort along the lines of _shut up_ and _decorum_ , his mind yanked out of a dark memory closet the haughty faces of certain officers on the _Accuser_ , the day Acting Captain Piett arrived on board; a trio of Alderaanians, best friends since the academy, blue blood, so handsome and tight-knit it was fair to assume they fucked, all dead now. By the end of his first standard week on the ship, Piett had caught wind of a dozen ‘ _acting_ captain’ jokes. The first time he dined on the _Executor_ , Ozzel mentioned one such joke, about the captain _acting_ in bed. Everyone laughed.

“Aye, decorum,” Haidar muttered. “That’s always what they want from us. That we give ‘em a polite smile as they crush us underfoot.”

“Who in the nine hells is _us_?”

“Eh, every Rebel had their own definition.” Haidar’s lips curled as he spoke, adding a visual cue of irony to every word. Another dark closet opened, this time showing Caleb Sarkli the rare times he bothered coming home and telling Attica why, if he’d been working overnight, he reeked of booze instead of starship fuel. “The slaves, every sentient who’s poor even if they ain’t no slaves, the proletariat—you know, the poor sentients who work, but aren’t slaves, an’ that one Rebel lass couldn’t believe it when I told her that slavery exists in the galaxy an’ it ain’t all the Empire’s fault... Ye got the point.”

“The point I get is that you’ve spent far too much time infiltrating Rebel cells.”

“That’s true. But I never said I think they’re right or I want ‘em to win the war. Honest,” Haidar had the good sense of lowering his voice, “they suck the Old Republic’s todger too much for my Rimworlder arse’s taste. The only ones who made some sense were the ex Seppies. _Some_ of ‘em, uncle, don’t give me the jaig eyes—those who said we should give up on rulin’ the whole galaxy an’ buildin’ these huge bloated governments that draw in corruption like dianogas to garbage pits. All of us: Empire, Republic, Hutts, Black Sun, Seppies... No hierarchy, no crime lords, no lords whatsoever.” Haidar snapped his fingers.

“Imagine if Commandant Hux could hear you now.”

“Pah! What does he know of the Outer Rim? Fuck-all, I tell ye. Doesn’t get us, the same way that well-meaning Rebel lassie didn’t.” Haidar gave him a Caleb Sarkli sneering smile. “Heh, but unlike him she was a sweetheart who lemme spread her legs—”

“ _Us_ , you keep babbling on about us... Drop it already. We aren’t slaves and we aren’t poor, Captain.”

“Course ye ain’t poor, _Admiral_.”

Yet another junior officer underestimating a commander’s paycheck. Piett shut his lips tight against speaking that remark aloud; Haidar was family, but family that might be hiding a grudge, and who might report him to some ISB stooge in the mood for sniffing anti-Imperial thought crimes in an officer who groused about low wages.

“But ye were once.” Haidar’s smile morphed into heavy-lidded seriousness. “Mom an’ so many more back home still are.”

“Her repair shop is doing good business. Have you commed your mother at all?”

“I commed the chief ISB officer in the system. An’ Moff Luc. He says hello. Mistook my voice for yours, haha! Anyway, mom is not doing well. Business got tough an’ she needs a helper in the shop.”

“Why don’t you go back there and help her out?”

“Why don’t _ye_?”

“Don’t try and guilt me for leaving that hellish rock, young man. Your mother should have listened to me and done the same—”

“Fine, uncle, but then don’t guilt me either, eh? Or mom for staying there.”

“Comm her, Captain. This is an order.”

The wine aficionados strolled away with two full glasses in each hand. Piett stepped into the spot they’d just left. The server droid’s photoreceptors landed on him. “What may I serve you now, Admiral?”

“Same red you gave me the last time.”

“Of course, sir.”

Piett gulped it down in one go, and handed her the goblet again. “One more, please.”

The droid dropped all the vocal expressivity modulators, “Of course, sir.”

The wine lightened his body and wrapped his mind in a haze of euphoria, like the instant-effect antidepressants the medidroid sometimes prescribed him. Refilled goblet at the ready, he went in the direction Haidar had given him. He caught one last sight of him, observing the food on the buffet hoverplates and scratching his chin. Piett didn’t distract him, and Haidar let him slip away.

The guests stepped casually aside out of Piett’s way; most didn’t deign him with so much a glance, but it was impossible to miss the path they opened towards the lady in the red dress, sitting down cross-legged on the sofa, the polished white shoe and red high heel jutting out of a long leg in a black silk stocking. Guests and hovering server droids surrounded her like handmaidens around a Naboo monarch.

A man in Navy dress uniform, that Piett recognised as the sector Moff, bent to whisper something to her ear.

The lady gave Piett a pursed-lips smile. “Ah, dear Admiral Piett! Welcome to our little country cottage.”

“Thank you, milady.” Since Lady Jeskeith didn’t offer him her hand for the typical formal greeting, Piett bowed his head as in a Navy salute.

“We were so worried you couldn’t make it, after all. I trust you have a serious reason for being so late, don’t you? One that also prevented you from preparing yourself.” Her eyes wandered over his uniform, regarding it like it was an ugly thing she didn’t want to call ugly straight away.

“Yes, I do. An urgent comm from Lord Vader.”

“Ohh. That makes sense. Thichis, dear, had you ever met Admiral Piett before?”

“No, never.” Overt disapproval crossed Moff Kuras’ face. Piett knew it was because of the uniform, and his sense of military integrity agreed with that disapproval.

“You were lucky,” the Moff continued, “that General Veers was here to cover for you.”

“General Veers _and_ General Shale,” said a lady who took Lady Jaclina’s hand and sat next to her on the sofa. Piett recognised her from the holos he’d looked up as the lady’s wife and the Moff’s sister. “Although it’s quite obvious who the bright star of this night was.”

“Miep, you’re drunk and your tongue is loose.” Lady Jaclina grinned at Piett like she was about to fire a proton torpedo at him. “I cannot imagine a better time for you to engage Admiral Piett in a conversation.”

While they laughed, Piett emptied his glass in one swig and plucked a full one off the closest server droid’s tray.

Lady Miep began the attack, “Is Lord Vader satisfied with our work so far?”

Piett considered an evasive manoeuvre, claiming Vader hadn’t told him, and that their conversation had hinged on details that were too top-secret for table talk. Instead, he stood his ground and fired back. “There is room for improvement, milady. The latest AI engineering report has pointed out massive issues with the most recent system upgrades. I am awaiting test results on the navcomp, but I frankly have a bad feeling about this; so does Lord Vader.”

“We can work fast or we can work well, Admiral. Perhaps,” Lady Miep cradled the amber-coloured wine in her manicured hand, “if Lord Vader had brought in the _Executor_ a bit earlier for maintenance, rather than barging into the shipyards completely unannounced and out of schedule, the process would have been smoother.”

“This is war, milady. We don’t control when it strikes us or how long a mission will keep us busy.”

“I’m glad we agree on that.” Lady Miep took a sip of wine, her eyes shooting low-intensity turbolaser bolts at Piett.

While she drank, Moff Kuras spoke up, “I think we Navy people tend to miss an important point here, Admiral. We should consider the drain on resources for Kuat. We imposed it once, and we are doing it again.” This was met with mutterings of _exactly_ and nodding faces. The pack of guests had grown in numbers. Piett tensed at the realisation he was surrounded, one against many.

He took a quick swig to stoke the courage inside him. “Isn’t this what the shipyards had always wanted? Channelling resources into the fleet rather than building Death Stars?”

That shut them up. The polite smile froze on Kuras’ face, and his eyes broke contact with Piett’s to flit all around.

Piett resisted the temptation to smirk, and finished his wine. “This is very good. Local grapes?”

A woman broke into a high-pitched laugh. It was Lady Jaclina. Since she was the mistress of the house, she could afford to sound as boorish as an Axxilan street vendor; but it didn’t mean Piett appreciated the similarity.

“You aren’t aware, Admiral?”

“No, madam. I’m afraid I am nowhere near a wine connoisseur.” Shame poked at him, illogical, easy to quell. Just a fleeting sting.

“The admiral is joking,” Kuras broke in, as jovial as ever. “He knows all about the second Death Star and Operation Sanctuary, and he’s messing with you. Our terrible naval humour strikes again, right, Admiral?”

A TIE fighter engine accelerated from zero to four-thousand G inside Piett’s skull, and hurled his brain barrelling into space, far too fast for his thought processes to catch up with the momentum and adjust to it. “Right.” His own voice sounded so normal it was part of the unsettling sensation, too. “I was not joking about the good wine, though.”

“So you know,” said Lady Miep, gently shaking her glass up and down as if mirroring at low intensity a stabbing fantasy going on in her mind, “and Lord Vader knows. And he surely understands that, while our loyalty to the Empire is unwavering,” _because the Rebels don’t pay anywhere nearly as well_ , Piett thought and nodded, “we are starting to harbour some reservation about the conduct of the war—”

“Milady, the Kuat Drive Yards representative does not sit in the Joint Chiefs council yet. Nor does Raith Sienar, don’t worry.” The ladies forced out a little laugh. “If they ever do, then we will take such opinions into account, but as things stand now, the Navy cannot take orders from you.” Piett shot a brief, pointed look at Moff Kuras when he said _Navy_.

“Speaking of taking orders,” said Lady Jaclina, “several of our subsidiary companies across the galaxy complained about a lack of funds that, regrettably, has been chronic for... oh, a few decades.”

“So, for as long as Grand Moff Tarkin held the reins. If I am correctly interpreting your subtext.”

Piett had made sure to use a cold and spiteful tone, but the ladies, their cronies and even Moff Kuras laughed. Somebody said through the laughter, “I’m beginning to like his brass-necked honesty!”

Lady Miep wiped a tear and a glittery streak of blue eyeliner off her face. “Ah, you’re right, you’re right! Tarkin could not understand the notion of salary, or capital, I swear!”

“Remember that Lothalian joke where Tarkin visits a labour camp—”

Moff Kuras’ eyes left Piett to aim all guns on the red-cheeked toff telling the joke.

“—a _factory_ and one worker throw herself at his feet wailing that they’re starving and need bread, and Tarkin answers, _if you don’t have bread then eat rations_?”

“I remember that,” Piett rumbled. “It used to be a Separatist joke. Chancellor Palpatine was in the place of Grand Moff Tarkin, and the rations were flatcakes.”

“That’s how I remember it, too,” Kuras said. That dispelled the hilarity. Piett lunged for two wine glasses and offered one to the Moff.

“We mean no disrespect or subversive talk,” Lady Jaclina minced back into the command post, “but the sad truth is, my dear Thichis, my dear admiral—you are selfless soldiers, and will go out and fight with your orders and your wonderful sense of duty as payment. Building starfleets, however, requires _actual_ payment.”

Piett bit his tongue against growling how many repairs on the _Executor_ could have been paid for, if the money spent to organise this party had been redirected into the works. Or if a Huttfucking brand new Death Star weren’t bloodletting resources away from his Lady Ex. “That’s what Imperial citizens pay taxes for, milady.” His mood had soured enough to load a missile. “In my experience, that burden tends to fall more heavily on the shoulders of the poor rather than—”

“Interesting that you bring up taxation issues!” a lady with crystal-like prosthetic arms spoke up, baring her smiling teeth like a strill about to maul a prey. Lady Miep stifled a giggle and drank up her wine over it; Piett didn’t like the exhilaration in her eyes as she watched Strill Lady.

“Hardly issues for you,” Piett stuck to attack as the best defence, “given that as far as I know the shipyards and all related facilities in this system are tax-free and pioneered the current Imperial legislation on labour unions, courtesy of His Majesty the Emperor and the Joint Chiefs.”

“Yes, of course. Your subtext is that His Majesty can just as easily take away the privileges he has so far granted to us, am I correct?”

“I suggest you never forget it.” Resorting to threats was going to blast his career right out of the skies. But if Lord Vader were here, he would take no poodoo from these toffs either.

“We never do, in fact. But what Lady Jaclina was saying about our underfunded subsidiary companies... it is so regrettable, Admiral. Military theorists have argued for millennia about principles of war feeding war, but—far be it from me to teach you how logistics works, but oh, it is a difficult principle to sustain. If you want to do other things with the galaxy than fighting wars in it, that is.”

Piett had always assumed that ‘war feeding war’ meant some wishy-washy pacifist truism like ‘violence breeds more violence’, but he kept his own ignorance to himself.

“Those funds are _public_ , you see,” Strill Lady continued. “Straight out of the loyal Imperial tax-paying citizens’ pockets, some of whom cast their lot with the Rebellion because the military expenditure—and the military _manufacturing_ expenditures—were nicked off their budget for... well, hyperlanes, medical facilities, infrastructure maintenance, education, and so on. And it doesn’t suffice! Oh, you may not want to give me that scowl, Admiral. It’s all in a recent ISB report that my good friend Colonel Yularen was so kind as to forward me. I recommend you to look it up. But I digress. Did you know that income tax collection rates dropped steadily throughout Grand Moff Tarkin’s tenure as governor of the Outer Rim? And the negative peak was touched around the time the Death Star became operational? We are still inside the negative peak, by the way.”

“Another interesting thing is,” Piett bit back, “I have seen the same argument in Rebel propaganda hololeaflets.”

“Economics transcends propaganda, Admiral. It is fine and fair that you don’t trust Rebel propaganda, but you may well trust the chief general accountant of Kuat Drive Yards.”

Lady Miep was giggling without restraint now. Lady Jaclina fixed on her drunk wife a look of formal reprehension, pity, and underlying tenderness. Was that how Veers had looked at newly minted, drunk and horny Admiral Piett that night after Hoth, after their celebratory grogs? For a blinding moment, Piett wished it was within the boundaries of dinner protocol to smash the empty wine glass onto his own face, and smash it so hard the glass shards would tear through all the way into his brain.

Why was his glass empty, anyway? A server droid passed. He swapped the empty glass for a full one. “Citizens who refuse to pay the taxes are not quite the definition of loyal. Too bad, we will make them loyal again.”

“In that case, hurry. You may want to have that new Death Star operational before Tatooine freezes over.”

Piett rocked the glass to turn a hand tremor into a casual, intentional gesture. “I also want my ship and my fleet fit for combat again before Tatooine freezes over. And by _my_ fleet, I mean _Lord_ _Vader’s_ fleet.” While the toffs laughed their rich arses off, and exchanged alert looks that didn’t match the hilarity, he guzzled his wine. Didn’t see what colour it was, and as for the taste, all that mattered was the liquid heat down his gorge.

A new guest approached the ladies’ command post, a chap whose booming voice made Piett’s ears ring. He went straight for Lady Jaclina and Lady Miep, shook hands, and blathered, “You won’t believe who I’ve just met—General Veers in person! It was a honour for me, and you made it possible, my dear lady.”

Lady Jaclina nodded, unperturbed in her smile and an ever-full wine goblet.

“His wife used to work in my company,” and on he nattered. The ringing in Piett’s ears rose to a roar, as if the turbines of an Executor-50.x engine had started spinning inside his skull, the noise composing the word _schutta_ over and over. Veers’ wife— _schutta, schutta, schutta_ —and the gorgeous Baroness Valon superimposed themselves onto the Jeskeith ladies.

He turned around and stomped through the crowd towards the exit. A server droid flew to catch up with him; he slammed his last goblet on the droid’s tray, causing an avalanche of glassware to crash to the floor. This time the door swung open wide to the empty ballroom.

“You may now proceed to the ballroom, sir,” the droid said, as tartly as its limited processors allowed. “The first dance is estimated to begin in—”

Piett traversed the ballroom; halfway through it, guests flooded in. He avoided looking at their faces, all the more so if the guests were in uniform.

His line of retreat was cut short at the gate of the commoners’ dining hall, the patio enclosed in transpariglass panes: it was raining lothcats and akk dogs. He commed his driver, who was a good lass and answered at the first beep and sounded sober. Then he got hold of a half-empty bottle abandoned on a table and finished it off, without bothering to pour the wine into a glass. Now he was ready to brave the night and the rain. Or at least trick his brain into not assuming the rain was acid.

Huttfucking hells, though, he should have brought a raincoat. Knowing that fleet-issue raincoats offered a small degree of protection from acid rain, as well as ordinary water rain, would have been a comfort. Refuelled with liquid courage, he stepped outside the gate.

Each raindrop was so cold it burned. _Don’t stop. Don’t go back_. One boot in front of the other, his footing precarious on the slimy ground. The rain battered every unclothed inch of his body, flowed in rivulets down the collar of his uniform. Boonta bless the trees through which wound the lantern-lit path to the parking area, for the minimal shelter they offered.

He made a final dash for the speeder that awaited him with lights on and engine thrumming. Running was undignified for an admiral, so Piett settled for a fast gait. He climbed on the speeder’s back seat and his drenched uniform squelched against the upholstery.

His heart pounded as if it were still out in the cold and open, hurrying to catch up. “To Kuat City,” he told the driver. “And crank up the heating.”

“Yes, sir.” A few minutes into the drive, she asked for permission to speak.

“Granted.”

“Sir, you... should not keep those wet clothes on.” A pause, gathering guts. “I’m from Pamarthe, sir. I know what it’s like to get drenched in a storm.”

“And you’d rather not be blamed if an admiral falls sick on your watch.”

Lightning filled the sky ahead of them with dead-white light, reflected in each raindrop that pock-marked the speeder’s windshield despite the wipers at full speed. A dull thunderclap followed, its noise not even resembling something as familiar as turbolaser fire in the distance. The wine in Piett’s stomach gurgled. The speederway ran across the lake, and the lake might be stormy.

“I’d rather not, sir,” the driver said, calm despite the rain and the night.

Piett chided himself for being afraid. “I will trust your expertise, then.” He took off his cap and gloves, unbuckled his belt and unfastened his tunic. “So, Pamarthe.”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Stroma, operational number—”

“Is it true that Port-in-a-Storm is stronger than tihaar?” He pried the rain-wet collar of his shirt off his neck, and pressed his back to the seat, warmed from his own body and the increased heating.

“...Sir?”

“In your personal opinion.”

“As far as I know, it depends on how the tihaar is made, sir. But overall... I would say Port is stronger, sir.”

“Like a good Pamarthen lass, you have a bottle of it aboard this speeder.”

“Sir, that is against regulations.”

“Yes, it is. It would land you into trouble if I informed your superiors. Share the Port, and I will not.”

Sergeant Stroma’s eyes in the rear visor darted around the driving console, then to the road ahead, the streetlights fading in the rain and the ghostly white wave crests.  Her gloved right hand opened a compartment of the driving console, groped under the datapads that stored the speeder’s documents, and pulled out a groundpounder-issue canteen. She passed it to Piett. “I hope it keeps you warm, sir.”

“Thanks, Sergeant. Your good service won’t be forgotten.” He uncapped the canteen. A fruity scent wafted out, so harmless it was disappointing. Piett rose the canteen to his lips and drank.

The universe fizzled out of existence around him, except for a core of warmth in the middle of his body. Thoughts spun around that core like planetoids orbiting a star, as minuscule and scattered into the black vastness as if he were observing them through the eyes of the Force. Lord Vader. Another Death Star. Nobody had told him. Why hadn’t he known until now? The Joint Chiefs. The _Executor_. Command. Go back to the fleet. Had Ozzel known?

Normal space-time continuum re-established itself. The warm core was pulsing, it was his heart and a throb in his temples that promised migraines. The rest of his body came back into form, and so did the bottle on his lap. He looked up; it took his eyes a few blinking seconds to catch the visual of the driving console and Sergeant Stroma’s stare in the rear-view mirror.

He could barely feel his own face, but his brain gave it the input to smile. “The Port lives up to its reputation.”

Stroma’s eyes went back to the road. “Glad it does, sir.”

“Cheers, Sergeant.” Piett drank up what was left of the canteen. He chugged on as the universe again folded and receded. His tongue remained awake and within realspace, feeling the fruity, scalding taste of the Port to the last droplet.

He wasn’t sure when he regained his senses, but his inner clock swore it had been just a few standard seconds. Raindrops streaked the window at his side like stars seen from hyperspace. He missed the stars, he missed hyperspace, he missed space.

Blasted planetary gravity pulled his head down until his forehead knocked on the window pane. He sat up straight, eyes to the front. In the white cones of the speeder’s light, a wave crashed on the roadway. The speeder drove into it, water splashing all around.

“This is crazy,” Stroma muttered.

“Do explain yourself, Sergeant,” Piett had never noticed how pleasant his own Core accent was, “if you don’t mind?”

“The speederway, sir—it’s too close to water level. It should be at least ten meters high to be safe.”

“So you are saying it should be a bridge?”

“Yes, sir! On my homeworld bridges have to be at least thirty metres high to be of any use, but then again we have oceans and this is a lake. Did you... drink it all?”

“I’m afraid so.” It was nice to speak like Coreworlders, and to exert their same sort of calm, casual power. The Joint Chiefs were onto something when they’d encouraged the Imperial officer corps to conform to Coreworlder social mannerisms. “Once you drop me off, head over to a cantina and treat yourself to an ale.”

“Yes, sir.” As if she could. Piett didn’t need the Force to read a military driver’s thoughts: her orders were to go back to the garrison as soon as the admiral didn’t require her services anymore. The speeder had tracking devices; it was easy for her superiors to check if she took a detour at a cantina, and for how long.

Neither spoke for the rest of the drive. The rain ceased, Piett didn’t see when or where; they were already inside Kuat City, and when the speeder halted and the engine stopped, Piett almost forgot to put the pieces of his uniform back on. The tunic was damp, and he bit back a yelp in donning it. He stepped out of the speeder, returned the sergeant’s parting salute, and reached the gate without tottering.

Walking in the chilly night, after the comfortable warmth and the smooth motion of the speeder, did two different things to two different parts of his body: his head swam, and his bladder filled to bursting. In the lift he clenched his fists to prevent his hands from flying to the front of his trousers, freeing his blaster gun and unloading it onto this fine, clean place.

The headache vice tightening, he wondered how it had felt for Veers to come all over his dress uniform. To soil the very symbol of Admiral Piett’s crowning moment, and to poison the rest of the night. Piett stiffened. For all his bloody sad widower posturing, Veers was no different from the cadets at the academy on Halmad who’d given him and Jivko the nine hells when finals results were announced and the two of them scored in the top band.

_And you trusted him, Firmus. You bloody idiot_.

The lift stopped and the doors slid open. He shambled over to his door and only when he was inside the apartment, tracking mud to the bathroom, he realised he should’ve pissed on the door to Veers’ quarters. Kriffing hells. Down went the zip and his pants. How did the scuttlebutt manage to credit him for engineering Ozzel’s death? He lacked the presence of mind to exact a petty revenge, let alone frame his own CO for incompetence on the eve of a battle. Piss streaked the bog seat.

Grunting, he tore off some toilet flimsipaper, wiped himself and the worst of the spillage clean, zipped up his trousers and went to the kitchen.

The flask of tihaar was where he’d left it on the countertop. He snatched it and a glass, and limped to the holoterminal in the living room, where he placed the flask and the glass to the side so that they wouldn’t show in the hologram.

He logged in to the military HoloNet network and composed the codes to initiate a transmission. Drunkenness numbed his fear, shrunken deep into a corner of his chest. When a green light blipped on the terminal, though, his heart jumped into his throat and with it an acidic wave of wine and Port-in-a-Storm. He shut his mouth tight and swallowed.

No hologram appeared. The transmission from Lord Vader was text-only.

_Admiral,_

_I am undergoing medical treatment._

Piett blinked. Did he mean his routine medical check-ups, which the non-droid medical staff of the _Executor_ weren’t allowed to access the files of, and that were claimed to be a blend of torture session and mech maintenance? Or was it something else? There had been a dent on Lord Vader’s armour, on the right upper arm when he’d flown back to the _Executor_ from Bespin. But as far as Piett remembered, it had been repaired at once.

_Unless the matter is urgent, it shall wait._

That was all. No follow-up from the holoterminal.

Piett typed a reply, the automated spell-check flagging typos and correcting them into proper Basic every two words:

_Milord,_

_Kuat Drive Yards is lagging behind in the repair works on Death Squadron. Delays aren’t crippling yet, but it is imperative to act before they become so. KDY executives blame workforce and recession_

No, blast, that wasn’t the right word even if it was spelled right.

_and resources being redirected onto the construction of a second Death Star. I was never informed of this. It was offhandedly discussed at Lady Jeskeith’s gala in my presence and Moff Kuras’, who did know, or appeared to do so. I believed this should be brought to your attention_.

_Glory to the Emperor,_

_Adm. Piett_

His formal Basic was better when he was piss-drunk than when he was sober. He sent the message. Wondered if Lord Vader was in a bacta tank or on an operation table, and if so, how he managed to write a text message. The Force, maybe; it must have other uses than telekinetic strangulation, or the kinky acts featured in Jedi-themed pornography (and Lord-Vader-themed pornography) that sometimes were confiscated from junior officers’ locker rooms.

The green blip, again.

_The matter shall wait._

The heartbeat throb in Piett’s temples ticked the seconds by. The holoterminal didn’t give any further vital sign on Lord Vader’s part; Piett’s inbox succumbed to the automatic safety log-off.

He fought a rush of nausea, forcing himself to inhale deeply and exhale sharply. His body was sweating in the uniform, catalysing all the fear his alcohol-padded mind hadn’t felt. Fresh air, he thought, craving it. He grabbed the tihaar and the glass and lumbered to open the terrace door and step outside on the water-slippery tiles. His imagination projected what it would be like if the terrace door were an airlock on the _Executor_. If this cold, breezy and clear night were interstellar vacuum.

A fitting death for a fleet admiral.

He pulled a chair by the table in the middle of the terrace, sat, and winced at the cold wetness under his arse. He opened the flask and poured its content into the glass.

Halfway through swallowing it, his throat sealed itself shut against the liquid fire. His hand shook and almost dropped the half-full glass. The planet swung out of its rotation axis, and the floor towards his face.

Piett grabbed onto the armrest with his free hand and dug in his heels. His other arm dangled within his field of vision, gravity pulling it and the glass downwards. The tihaar splashed inside the glass.

He brought it to his lips, thrust his upper body upright on the chair, and poured the tihaar down his throat, not bothering to hold it into his mouth. He coughed, snorted and choked as tihaar seared through his airway. Even the tears that filled his eyes burned.

He couldn’t feel his hand that held the glass. His own body was a traitorous _schutta_ , too, and the glass clinked to the floor. The noise was loud, unbearable, offensive. “Blastin’ poodoo!” Piett bellowed, his voice pain-wracked through his scorched throat. Blast the tears as well, he couldn’t see where the glass had rolled off. Must be somewhere under the table; he leaned onto its edge and hauled himself to his feet, half-bent to scout the floor.

This search operation better be quick. At this angle, gravity exercised an easy pull on the bubbling content of his stomach.

“Firmus?” he thought he heard someone call.

“Get blasted, ye too!” he yelled at the hallucination. And there was the glass. He reached down to snatch it. The floor rose to meet him and this time hit him square in the face. Piett had not been knocked out cold since several years and several field missions ago; dull, throbbing pain that spread over his body, spinning head, hitching breath—and he was lying down defenceless on the ground, and wasn’t alone. If the Force or old Boonta or the thief-gods had any mercy—kriff-all they had—he would choke in his own puke before the other man could touch him.

“Hells, what have you been mixing your grog with?” The voice was Veers’.

_Well played, hallucination_. But you had to be precise about certain things. “‘Twas naw grog, ye blast-brained cunt.” Piett’s tongue bumped against the floor as he spoke. It tasted of wetness and earth. Gross, like everything else about being dirtside. “Spiced tihaar.”

“All right, sailor, we aren’t on the best of terms right now but I’d rather you not die of hypothermia here…”

Piett felt hands on himself. A shiver cut through the drunkenness blanketing him. “Naw, lemme.” His teeth bit onto his tongue. Everything in his mouth was out of place. “Off wi’ yer hands…” Before his body could obey the command to roll away, get up and fight, Veers had already grabbed him and dragged up to his feet, holding him into an upright position.

The motion worsened the dizziness and exposed him to the chilly wind. Veers said something, so close to his ear the words mashed together into an unintelligible rumble, punctuated with the chattering of his own teeth.

“Lemme…” Piett tried to push himself away, flopped against Veers’ frame instead. Warm. Steadying. He wanted nothing more in the galaxy than huddle to that warmth, breathe in that manly scent even if it did not help the nausea.

His eyelids had dropped shut but he sensed light beyond them, tingeing the darkness in a pale golden hue. Then softness underneath him. Had Veers taken him to bed? Was he going to fuck him now that he was weak? There it was, Veers’ hand on his forehead. “Get lost, berk,” Piett drawled. But blast if he cared, should Veers carry on anyway.

“Sure thing. But I’m getting you a blanket first.”

A _blanket_? Piett meant to laugh, but the stimulus reached neither his facial muscles nor his vocal chords and the laughter boomed in the locked box of his skull. A blanket! Huttfucking berk, he must be mocking him. A blanket, right, as if he needed a blanket. He’d soon get a body bag, rather. He had angered and disappointed Lord Vader. Death would end the nausea and the cold and the shivers. If he let himself slip into unconsciousness forever now, choked on his own vomit, let Veers kill him, it might be even easier. Already he lacked the strength to open his eyes.

“You awake?” Veers’ voice was soft, several parsecs away.

“Blast me.” Talking upset a fragile balance at the pit of his stomach. Piett barely got the better of his urge to puke, channelling all the focus he could muster into a few ragged breaths.

The darkness was silent. He cracked an eye open and light blazed, wounding, too intense. By instinct he curled up, and realized there was a blanket on him. Veers had—wait, was he gone? “Max?”

“I’m here.” Further parsecs away.

“Stay, please.”

“Of course, of course.”

It was difficult to identify reality through the fog of sickness, but Piett made an effort. He heard footsteps, Veers’ familiar pace on his way to bed.

“I ain’t well, damn it,” Piett said. The Force only knew if he meant that to deter any sexual intention on Veers’ part, or to keep that compassionate berk tractor-beamed here with him.

“Understatement of the century.” Veers’ footsteps didn’t stop.

“Max, please…”

Silence. The hull breached open underneath Piett. A fresh wave of nausea, then bone-deep chill shooting through him, as he helplessly floated out into space.

“How was the party for you?” said Veers. What party? Meaningless words. But they proved Veers was still here.

“Bleedin’ hells, Max, I think I’m dying.” He must _keep_ Veers here. At all costs. Make him worry and care for him.

“I know the feeling.”

Was that even a Veers answer? Where in the nine hells had the compassionate berk fucked off to? Piett whimpered in frustration. “I’m bloody sorry, Max. Ye deserve better’n me.” Maybe this would work. Elicit something. Enough pity for Veers to keep loving him, or enough hatred to off him.

“I think we have deserved each other, sailor.”

It was do or die. Beg or lose him. “I luv ye, Max—please, please don’t leave me…” This was what Veers’ Coreworlder ideas about love meant anyway, wasn’t it?

“Indeed. I better not leave you while you’re so piss-drunk.”

This couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be Veers. This must be a dream. He had already lost him. Piett let himself float back into the dark. Space was thicker than the polluted water in the Slime River of Rikuba City, enveloping and crushing his consciousness under its weight.

For a long, long time, there was nothing but darkness.

Then, a spark of pain. That spark reignited the awareness of the body that pain was wracking, one centimetre at a time, out of the dark slime. Tautness. Stomach. Bitter taste. Sore throat, pasty mouth. Hard to breath. Acid spilling in his mouth.

Piett’s eyes flew open. He was lying on his side in a place he didn’t recognise, and his throat was clogged. He perched over the side of the bed—not a bed, not _his_ bed—just in time before the overflow forced his mouth open.

The vomit fell into a bowl, strategically placed to line up with his face. When the flood was exhausted, he sagged back on the... the _couch_. In his apartment on Kuat. Knowing where he was calmed a bit the furious drumming of his heart.

“Feeling better?”

He looked up at Veers, standing by the couch a little to the side and pinching his nose shut.

“It depends,” Piett croaked. The taste of puked booze mixture filled his mouth like residual liquid. “How bad was I earlier?”

“I found you lying on the terrace and growling in Axxilan.”

“Oh.” _Poodoo_.

“I shouldn’t have done what I did to you, Admiral. I apologise.”

“W-what? Ah, you mean... in the bedroom. No, you shouldn’t have.”

Veers held his glare, which mustn’t amount to much of a threat right now.

“But the Jeskeith ladies...” Piett gathered bitter saliva and spat it into the bowl. “...were happier to have you deliver the speech than me. I guess?”

Veers rolled his eyes. “Who isn’t happy to trot out the Hero of Hoth at their garden party? I can’t wait to go back to war.”

“Likewise, General.” The general, he noticed, wasn’t wearing his boots. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Long enough for me to think about it and decide to apologise. I’m astounded you woke up so soon. Hells, I’m astounded you’re _speaking_. What was in that tihaar?” He frowned at the bowl. “Judging from the smell, it should’ve knocked out a normal Human for a standard week.”

“Spice. Illegal, in all likelihood. I had wine before it. And a bottle of Port-in-a-Storm.” It was tiring to recall the details, label sensations with words. The dinner, the drive home, a chaos of fragmented images. He wanted to close his eyes again.

“Port-in-a...” Veers shook his head. “You’re not normal.”

“I was upset.” He didn’t need to specify he’d been upset at Veers; he didn’t have the strength to face another quarrel, either. “How embarrassing was I? Aside from lying on the floor and letting my Rimworlder self loose.”

“Well, you said you love me.”

“Huh.”

“Don’t worry, you were drunk.” Veers smiled. “I won’t make a big deal of it this time.”

Tears welled up in Piett’s eyes. He couldn’t remember what had happened in the past few hours but he knew, with guts-deep precision, the last time sadness had rushed through him like this, as strong and physical as a rush of combat adrenaline: a night shortly after graduation. Crying silently into his pillow, in the cabin of the Halmad-Axxila transport ship; thinking of Jivko and of being stuck on his homeworld for as long as it pleased Old Boonta.

He wiped his face with the blanket. “Come closer, Max.”

After a few heart-stopping instants of hesitation, Veers nudged the bowl away with the tip of his foot, and sat on the floor by the couch; he stopped pinching his nose, his face serious, not angry but intense. Piett had to best a little hesitation of his own to raise a hand and ran his fingers through Veers’ hair. Veers let him do.

“I swear upon my honour as an officer that I am sober now and in the full possession of my wits.” Piett took a moment to inhale deeply and exhale a sliver of the dread within him. “When I said I love you, I meant every word. I just... happen to be such a coward that I need to be plastered in order to be honest about it.”

Veers blinked, but didn’t break his composure. Piett’s hand slid down to cup his cheek.

“I can say it again, if you want,” Piett whispered.

“If _you_ want it, Firmus.”

Piett considered acting on the nausea that was growing again in his stomach, just as a diversion to throw between them.

_You are in command now, Admiral Piett_. There had been no choice offered, no _if you want it_ , as Lord Vader belonged to the ‘join me or die’ school of thought. A memory fleeted across his mind, something recent and about Lord Vader... _Not now. No diversions_. If his promotion to admiral had been a choice instead of an order, would he have taken it? He suddenly wasn’t so sure the answer would have been a logical, immediate yes.

“I do,” he said. “I love you, Max.”

Veers remained silent.

A lump that may or may not be vomit formed in Piett’s throat.

Veers closed his eyes and leaned into Piett’s hand, dipping his head to kiss the palm. Planetary gravity released some of its vicious grip; even though his body wouldn’t move from the couch, a part of Piett floated upwards, to the sky and the Lady Ex there. He couldn’t do more than a gentle pull, but Veers understood the hint and lay his head down on the blanket. Piett stroked his hair.

“Firmus?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

Piett didn’t ask for what. He was tired, hung-over, had accepted a promotion to man in love—it was more than enough vulnerability for one night. But to keep Veers happy, he murmured, “As soon as my mouth is clean, I’m going to smother you with kisses.”

“I can’t wait.” Veers reopened his eyes. “By the way, can I get you something? Nausea meds, a glass of water?”

“Water would be good, yes.”

“In a moment.” Veers shuffled to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen. True to his word, he returned at once with the water.

Piett tried to sit up. Dizziness shoved him back to lie down.

“Need help?” asked Veers.

“I’m afraid so.”

Veers passed his left arm behind Piett’s shoulders and held him up, then brought the glass to Piett’s lips. The water was fresh, with none of the chlorine aftertaste that recyclers on the _Executor_ gave to tap water. Piett drank the whole glass and rinsed his mouth with the last sip.

“Thanks.” It hurt less to speak now. Veers made to move the empty glass away, but something caught Piett’s attention; he took Veers’ hand and turned it wrist-up. “What is this?” Stupid spontaneous question. He could recognise a cigarette burn on Human skin when he saw one.

Veers laughed. “Nothing. A... a dancing accident.”

“What happened?” Piett didn’t like the look of the wound. It must have been left untreated for hours.

“Somebody was smoking, and I bumped right into their cigarette. It’s nothing serious.” Veers yanked his hand free, hid it behind his back. “I’ve had worse. Come on, you weren’t anywhere near this concerned about my Hoth battle wound!”

“Go medicate it, General.”

Veers made a mock salute with his healthy hand and headed to the bathroom.

Piett lay down on his back, mashing his face to the cushion so that he couldn’t smell the reek of vomit from the bowl. His feet were uncomfortable in his boots, but if he tried to take them off the dizziness would flare up again. Stars, he hadn’t gotten so wasted in years. And all of this over Veers. All? He frowned into the dark corner. No, no, it couldn’t be; Veers truncating their relationship and humiliating him wasn’t worth _all_ of this drunkenness. Just the tihaar.

So, there had been Veers first, then Haidar. The dinner, Veers again and Baroness Valon. The Jeskeith ladies, wine on an empty stomach, the _Executor_.

The memory was a blaster bolt to his mind: a flash of light and searing pain. Another Death Star. To excuse their lagging progress on the repairs, they had nerfshitted him into believing the Empire was building another Death Star.

He rolled over on his side, pawed at the bowl to pull it closer and spat out watery vomit.

The noise attracted Veers, now sporting a bacta patch over the cig burn. “Sick again?”

As Piett coughed out the last his stomach had to give, he started laughing. His belly ached and his whole frame shook, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“I could use a good chuckle, too, you know,” Veers said.

The blanket had become entangled. Hiccupping with laughter, Piett tugged it free. “I will tell you over breakfast. Or lunch. Whenever I can bear to eat again.” He poked a foot out of the blanket. “Mind helping me out of my boots?”

A part of him, best kept silent for now, already wished the rest of his clothes would follow.


	24. Chapter 24

Kijé held the fragments of broken camera to her chest, trying to hide them in her crossed arms. She didn’t need to catch anyone _looking_ at them to be aware, all too aware, that they were still noticeable.

The holos weren’t lost, if anything. Admiral Piett in front of the Jeskeith ladies, a bit far away because the admiral was in a foul mood and Kijé hadn’t dared get closer, but zooming would make it fine. General Veers and Count Todo. Thank Shiraya for wireless HoloNet connections and automatic back-ups. Thank Bethan for keeping Kijé’s work tools updated. AIs were more reliable and so much less shitty than flesh-and-blood sentients.

Bethan had suggested that she always carry a back-up camera, too. It was smaller than a code cylinder, tucked away in her trousers left pocket, and she couldn’t reach for it with her hands busy, but it was there. Kijé had not fucked up this time. That gave her the courage to wander around the room until she found a garbage disposal unit, a marble cube marked with an incandescent Triangle of Rebirth.

Cool, thought her inner history student; that pictogram hadn’t been used to signify trash recycling for over two standard centuries in the Core, which could only mean this manor was at least that old. Who knew what events had taken place here—what decisions that shaped the future of the galaxy and prepared the end of the corrupt Republic were taken here, in this very room, over food and drinks and long hours...

Kijé shook her head out of the clouds. The lid of the cube had opened automatically, she had not seen when. Her camera joined a mound of broken dishware and half-eaten food.

The latter reminded her stomach how empty it was. She pressed a hand to it, in the vain hope to smother a rumbling noise.

At the buffet table, guests came and went partially blocking the view at any moment. She would have to walk into the thick of that crowd, _excuse-me_ her way to a free corner, and ask the server droid questions, since she didn’t know what the foodstuff was; it all made her sigh in exhaustion before she even tried. It was so simple on the _Executor_ , where she ordered food from the kitchen—on computerised holomenus that explained the food’s composition and nutritional values, so no need to _ask_ what those were—and ate in the privacy of her quarters.

Sudden fatigue settled in her bones, a heaviness like the planet’s gravitation had increased its pull. She had not eaten alone in a standard week; it had been either the barracks’ mess hall, or an invitation from General Veers or Captain Sarkli. And the barracks’ mess hall was an orderly place, with clear and well-formed queues, unlike this buffet scramble. Just watching it gave her head a migraine pulse.

Sarkli was nowhere in sight within the crowd. He’d set course for the food, Kijé for General Veers, and they had lost contact. Kijé’s hand moved towards her pocket where the comlink was, but that set off an alarm siren in her brain: _No! Embarrassing!_

A jumble of rational thoughts followed the alarm: it would appear impolite to use a comlink here in public and for Sarkli to pick up the comm, the communications might be monitored, she was stupid for needing his company.

Better do something, a small and manageable task, before her mind went off onto that stupidity tangent. A task like turning the back-up camera on. She groped for it into her left pocket. It was empty. Then into the right, while her heart sped up its beat. The comlink. She pulled it out and groped again. Nothing else. Left pocket again, empty again.

 _Dammit. Dammit. Double dammit, dammit, dammit_. Her lips quivered as they worded it all out soundlessly.

She whipped her head around, but there was nothing on the floor. She stepped back in front of the garbage cube; Kijé barely restrained herself from rummaging into the trash heap and the fragments of the main holocamera. This one had a localiser; the smaller back-up did not.

 _I hope a Rebel fighter crashes into the cockpit of your AT-AT someday, General_.

The garbage just placidly stared back at her. Kijé pretended to throw something in the vase and moved away. She already had her comlink in hand, and dialled Sarkli’s code with a trembling thumb. One beep. Two beeps. Three beeps. Four. Five. Six.

In the meantime, Kijé groped into her pockets again to find the same emptiness. Where could she had lost that camera, like the complete clumsy moron she was? Here in the dining room? On the way to the mansion, somewhere among the vegetation? In the parking lot? She was just wasting time, her own and Sarkli’s; she could maybe ask one of the server droids, see if they had picked up her camera among the lost items—at a big party like this, quite a lot of items must get lost.

She was about to end the comm and do just that, when Sarkli’s voice drawled out of the comlink, “Cap’n Sarkli.” His breathing was laboured.

Flush spread over Kijé’s cheeks, and a fit of pain knifed her in the guts. She tried not to visualise what she had just interrupted him doing, or why it upset her. “Kijé speaking. I... I’m sorry, Captain, never mind—”

“Yer voice’s funny. Is somethin’ wrong?”

His voice was ‘funny’ as well. Broken, shaky. The person he was with was silent.

“I lost my holocamera. The back-up—and General Veers broke my main camera.” Her voice wasn’t funny, it was pleading and querulous and close to weeping. Humiliating.

“Huh.” He inhaled and exhaled. Dammit, he must be so annoyed at her. “Counts as hampering a COMPNOR mission, I s’pose. Won’t be enough for a court-martial but you can file that into his confidential file an’... an’ if...” He sighed again. “Hey, look, can ye be a good lass an’ c’mere?”

“Sorry?”

“‘Fresher for the lower ranks. It’s easy to find, jus’ keep tryin’ to open the other ‘fresher room doors until this one opens.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“A bit, but mostly I’m sick as nine hells.” A pause. “Annice, please.”

Kijé turned the comlink off. The vast dining room had shrunken to the size of a supply closet on a Star Destroyer, and Kijé had to fight her own body to keep breathing and not huddle against the wall. It took her mind several seconds to accept that Sarkli’s plea for help was exactly that, as opposed to a lie fabricated to lure her into a trap, and she was still feeling bad at herself for her hesitation while she made her way to the toilets.

She had seen gender-separated refresher rooms and species-separated ones before, but this was the first time she saw one for civilians, one for upper-ranks military, and one for lower ranks. The door to the latter slid open as the lock scanned her code cylinder and rank bar.

The ‘fresher room was empty except for Sarkli, who stood in front of the mirror propping himself up with both hands on a sink. Water rushed from the tap. He rinsed his mouth, spat the water into the sink, and turned a glassy look on her. “Thanks, chik.”

“For... what?”

His face was pale and his whole tall frame was trembling. So were her hands. She clenched her fists.

“Ain’t feelin’ well,” he said. His gaze was fixed on her, but Kijé had the impression he wasn’t seeing her. The Aurebesh letters of Imperial handbooks for what to do when dealing with a Human in psychological shock flashed before her inner eye, but the meanings failed to match the graphemes. Blank pages, stomach-churning unease. Kijé stood frozen by the door, even as she imagined herself—observed as if there were a holoprojection of herself on a tactical display—pivot and barrel out of the ‘fresher.

She did manage some words, cold and stiff with fear. “Do you need medical assistance?”

Sarkli shook his head, longer and faster than a simple gesture of ‘no’ would have required. The ‘fresher walls seemed to close in; the air smelled staler, too, despite the fragrance from the crystal flower-shaped diffusers mag-leving at the corners of the sinks counter.

“I can’t tell ‘em,” Sarkli said in a flat, small voice. “They’ll think I’m corrupted, feelin’ sorry for a Rebel. It’s almost true.” He blinked very fast, several times. His gritted teeth flashed between his lips. “I mean... I reckon... I feel sorry for him. But mostly I... it’s like my clothes are soakin’ wet in blood again. Ye even know who I’m talkin’ about, chik?”

 _“_ No. I don’t.” _And I don’t want to know_. She didn’t want to know she’d placed her trust, again, in a traitor. She didn’t want to know the traitor was going to drag her down along with himself. She wanted to bolt out of this place, find General Veers, get _help_ —

“The spaceport. They all killed themselves when I busted their cute wee desertion run. They were carryin’ detonators strapped under their uniforms. Blew themselves to Boonta’s kingdom right in front o’ me. Got all their... bits an’ blood, all over me. In me mouth.”

Kijé’s own mouth was dry, her heart pounding and her stomach taut. It wasn’t for the gore story, or empathy with Sarkli; it was the fear of what he would say and do next. Of herself having to act on that.

“Y’see, I was tryin’ out these fancy Kuati foods an’ there’s this plate o’ minced meat, very raw an’ full o’ blood...” He drew the same deep, laboured breaths Kijé had mistaken for sensual moans. She hated her own body, the fleeting warmth that tingled between her legs for a split second. Yet, a sliver of the fear’s edge was filed off.

“I understand,” she said. “You don’t have to explain any further. Just breathe.”

“I know. The worst’s already gone.”

As the fear blotting out the other emotions lowered its deflector shield, Kijé was hit with a quick, burning blast of guilt: she’d left him alone to crawl through a panic attack.

“I ain’t _hut’uun_ -hearted, Lieutenant. Seen an’ done bloodier things’n that butchery fireworks. Jus’... didnae need ta live it agin. The bits in me mouth...” He turned to bend over the sink, slammed a palm on the water faucet and shovelled running water in his mouth, rinsing and spitting. The whole time, he hadn’t taken his gloves off.

“There is no shame in being distressed.” Kijé stepped towards him, halting at arm’s length from him, without reaching out to touch him yet. “It must have been ugly. I’m sorry it happened to you.”

The water jet stopped. Sarkli’s elbows rested in puddles, his gaze hung low into the sink. “I don’t deserve ye bein’ sorry.”

“It was not your fault, Captain.” It was true but rang so hollow, bordering on ludicrous. Like when her moms told her there was nothing worth fretting about whatever mundane campus thing was making her cry over the comm.

“This is bloody pathetic,” he said. “I was crackin’ dumb jokes just after the blast, wi’ gore all over my clothes, to the corpsmen an’ to that slimy treasonous Veers wermo. An’ now I can’t even eat raw steak in peace.” Basic was infiltrating his accent again and his speech was slower, each word clearer. Kijé chose to interpret that as a good sign.

“At least you _reached_ the buffet.”

His eyes blinked, flitted to the mirror, to Kijé’s reflection. “You haven’t eaten?”

“Nope. It was too crowded. I... don’t like crowds. Or having to be assertive in a crowd, even if it’s just a matter of ordering some food.” Sarkli said nothing, so she beat to the comment she knew was forming in his military mind, “Yeah, it makes little sense for an officer, doesn’t it?”

“Bet Veers tells you that a lot.”

“He’s right.”

Sarkli turned to face her, propped up with one hand to the sink. The pose already looked roguish rather than weak, but his face was serious. And still pale. “I must’ve made you nine hells of a lot uncomfortable today, then. An’ last night. My apologies.”

Kijé had to laugh. “Seriously? You played spy games with me, duped me into vandalising a nightclub, and now the one thing you apologise for is... taking me out on a date?”

“Well, the other things were pretty standard-fare COMPNOR stuff. Hopefully funnier’n average?”

She thought of a flying menstrual pad hitting Lieutenant Veers square in the acne-ridden, scowling face. She laughed again, louder, with true mirth that spread to his face. It was nice to see the half-smile curl up the corners of his mouth again. He’d smiled a lot today, at the mall and on the speeder before they’d rushed to pick up the admiral; Kijé had already started to miss his smile.

“C’mon,” he said, “let’s go check out the veggie menu.”

He stood upright but Kijé didn’t like the limp in his walk; she nestled under his right arm, breathing in his scent of bland aftershave and tangy sweat, holding his hand over her shoulder. He squeezed back. His head touched hers, but he didn’t turn to try a kiss. _Dammit, Captain, I just told you I’m not assertive—dammit dammit dammit double dammit, Annice, what are you thinking now, do you actually_ want _him to kiss you?_

They found a handful of people queuing behind the door as they exited the ‘fresher. Only now it did strike Kijé as odd that there didn’t seem to be anyone in the ‘fresher but the two of them.

“Sorry to keep ye waitin’, chaps,” Sarkli said to them. Nobody answered, nobody looked in their direction, as the queue paraded into the ‘fresher.

“I chased a lieutenant outta the ‘fresher when I barged in,” Sarkli explained. “Poor chik, she was jus’ tryin’ to fix her make-up.”

“Sounds like me,” Kijé said.

“Not as pretty. I reckon she got the word out that a thought policeman had invaded the loo, an’ everyone better hold their water.”

“Do you think it was wise or anti-Imperial of her?”

“Depends on if ye wanna send her off to Kessel or not.”

Chenda flashed through Kijé’s mind. Not her face, just the white of a stormtrooper armour. “Uh, I don’t think so, actually.”

“Fair ‘nuff,” Sarkli purred, soothing, while his hand slid down Kijé’s arm to hold onto her hip and she let him do. “We’ve got our eyes on someone already.”

Not even the thought of Lieutenant Veers, and of how General Veers would’ve reacted to this operation, could bar her greedy, womb-deep sudden wish that his hand reached further down—to the front or to the rear, it didn’t matter—inside her trousers that were beginning to feel a bit hot and tight.

The dining room had emptied while they were away. The droid waiting staff was shepherding the guests towards the ballroom.

“I don’t think Lieutenant Veers is the dancing type,” Kijé said.

“Can ye believe ‘twas actually one of the few courses where he got real good grades? I took a peep at his academy files. Can ye dance?”

“Me? But—now? We...?”

“We’ve got to be discreet when we hound him. Dancin’ our way to him makes sense to me. I knew an ISB chik who made a name for herself by hookin’ up wi’ targets in nightclubs on Coruscant... Ah, naw, naw, I didn’t know her in _that_ sense, rest assured!” Sarkli chuckled.

Kijé ignored the blush warmth on her cheeks and the petulant, morbid curiosity to ask him how many girlfriends, boyfriends and casual flings he’d had so far. And how many of them had been Rebels, non-Humans, or fellow Imperials.

They reached the ballroom. Kijé let him guide her to the outer edge of the dancers’ group. She wondered, and almost asked him, how many times before he had stalked a suspect like this. Her mind supplied images of a nightclub, in place of this high-end ballroom.

“There he is.” Sarkli spun her by the waist so that she stood in front of him; he took her right hand and held it up in the classic Coruscanti waltz position, ready for the music to begin. “Ye see him?”

“Yes. Who’s that with him?”

“Cap’n Jeskeith, I reckon. The only daughter an’ heir to the ladies o’ the house.”

That beautiful Navy captain walked away from Lieutenant Veers, to go grab the offering arm of an officer whom Kijé tentatively identified as Vice-Admiral Sloane. A much better partner choice than Lieutenant Veers. _Well done, sister. Dump his ass_.

All chatter around them fell silent for a moment, then the orchestra started playing a slow waltz, in the Kuati traditional style. Sarkli glided into the dance, and so she did along with him. They soon moved to an angle where the other dancing coupled shielded Lieutenant Veers to their view. With all respect to duty and their current mission, Kijé didn’t mind having eyes only for Sarkli now. He was beautiful, too. The dark edges of a neck tattoo peeked out of his collar, raunchier now that he was wearing an uniform rather than when he was in his civvies; what would it be like to lean in, just a few centimetres, and kiss them?

She pushed the thought aside, tried to rub her thighs together as she danced and scratch the moist itch to her sex. Her right foot stepped on something that immediately moved away.

“Sorry,” Kijé said under her breath.

“Don’t be.”

“I can’t. I can never stop being sorry.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“Same here.”

She wasn’t looking him as far high as the eyes, but she could see his mouth curl up into a close-lipped smile, like a restrained laughter.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, too. She was just that much of a weak-willed, gullible pushover.

“Can you still see him?” she asked after a few steps. Her voice drowned into the music. Kijé dipped her head closer to his face. “Can you see him?”

“Aye. Can I kiss you?”

Kijé was struck dumb. Her brain blacked out. The music faded to a garble. Her eyes fixed themselves downwards, to Sarkli’s rank badge.

She flinched as his breathing tickled her neck, her feet skidded and tripped on Sarkli’s but he held her too fast for her to fall.

“Never mind,” he said to her ear, “I won’t do it if ye don’t want it.”

“...Maybe later.”

“He’s comin’ this way.” Sarkli nudged her aside. In the nick of time, Kijé remembered discretion was paramount and managed not to look back over her shoulder like a complete moron.

“Seems he’s havin’ an argument with two wee lasses.”

Kijé frowned, but asked no questions. What with the music and his accent, she might have misunderstood. And she didn’t want to tell him his accent was too thick; she’d grown to like it too much.

“Gone,” Sarkli said after a moment. He turned Kijé around in wider motion than the dance step required. “There. Ruinin’ his papa’s date.”

From that point, despite the couples waltzing in the way, Kijé easily spotted General Veers, Lieutenant Veers, Baroness Valon and two children (both Humans of course), one of whom was in the baroness’ arms.

“If he’s askin’ for a dance, that’s not how a gentlebein’ should—oh.”

The Veers men left, the lieutenant leading the way through the dancers who turned to glare at him. _Shoving_ his way through. And the glares hit General Veers as well. Kijé averted her gaze, her stomach roiling with second-hand embarrassment.

Sarkli took up the waltz again, faster, into the thick of the dancers. All Kijé could do was hold onto him and follow his motions, and try not to lose sight of their target and the general—which she did almost at once.

Then they were out of the crowd, at the opposite end of it. They hadn’t bumped onto even one other couple.

Sarkli let go of her waist, but not of her hand. “They’re goin’ that way. Towards the parking lot, I reckon.” There was a big, luminous smile on his face. “Pretend we’re stealin’ away like two sweethearts.”

It wasn’t difficult. Kijé was already feeling her face aflame with blush.

Into the commoners dining hall, Sarkli stopped abruptly behind a corner wall and gestured at Kijé to halt.

“They ain’t leavin’ yet,” he whispered. “Just sat down at a table for a father-son chat, it seems.”

“Do you have any long-range listening device?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I thought ye didnae want to drag General Veers into trouble?”

“Sorry?”

“No evidence, no trouble.”

Kijé bit her own tongue. Rain was bucketing down, she noticed, over the transparisteel panes that shielded the dining room. Hardly surprising that Lieutenant Veers had not bolted for an escape route outside yet. But why was the general with him? Why had he sought him out? She clasped her hands in silent prayer. _Please, merciful Shiraya, keep the general safe; don’t let him become compromised._ And bit her thumbs in worry.

Sarkli wasn’t looking at her, intent as he was to try and peer past the corner. “Buggerin’ kriff,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m too exposed here.”

“Can they see you?”

He nodded. “I need a visual so I know what the target’s doin’ an’ where he’s goin’.” He looked around at the room and at the corridor behind them. “Aw, poodoo,” he said as a server droid hovered towards them.

Kijé had an idea.

She walked to meet the droid, as far away from Lieutenant Veers’ ears as she hoped was possible.

The droid’s camera eye read her rank badge. “Lieutenant Kijé—” it started, the vocabulator rendering an excellent Human scolding tone.

“This is a COMPNOR classified mission,” Kijé cut it, “and I need your assistance.”

“I apologise, but my programming has no record of any classified mission,” retorted the droid, with a subtext of _seriously, meatbag, are you shitting me?_

“That’s why it’s classified, and that’s why it is your patriotic duty to aid me, as per the Imperial Security Bureau Directive Esk-Three-Three-Zero-Five-Besh on the duties of service droids to Imperial agents on a mission.”

The droid was silent for a moment. The music in the ballroom had changed to an even slower waltz. “You are not an Imperial Security Bureau agent,” the droid said.

“Splitting circuits, aren’t ye?” growled Sarkli.

The droid pitched a bit, emitting a vocoderised sigh. “I will be glad to aid you, Lieutenant Kijé.”

“Captain Sarkli, please explain to our spy droid what to do.”

The way Sarkli looked at her brought back to Kijé’s mind an ancient Naboo miracle tale, about a shipwrecked seaman who fell in love with the waxing moon: _on the seventh night adrift at sea, the mariner beheld the full moon and prayed to her with the last of his parched breath, and the moon shone over all the waves so he could see the shore and swim to safety_.

Sarkli shook his head and, the radiance of joy and gratitude still suffusing his face, turned to the droid. “I need you to be my eyes and ears. You’ve got to casually hover in and keep your little eye on Lieutenant Veers. You must stay far from him, pretend you’re busy, or something.”

“I might as well begin tidying up, Captain Sarkli.”

“Whatever, just be discreet. Can you record ‘em?”

“I can, sir.”

“Good, do that. An’ when Lieutenant Veers or General Veers or both of ‘em leave, or they do anythin’ odd, give me a sign. Make some noise.”

“Define _anything odd_ , Captain.”

“C’mon, mate, you’re a service droid at a fancy Coreworld party wi’ free drinks, and they didn’t load a whole reference library of odd Human behaviours in your programming?”

“I will carry out your order as best as my programming allows, Captain.” The droid hovered forth and made itself busy at a table with a dozen seats and just as many wine bottles.

“Yer a lifesaver,” Sarkli told Kijé.

Kijé shrugged. “My workstation AI gave me some pointers. Mostly rules and regulations to read through, so I kind of know which pieces of legislation I can throw at sentients if I want a chance at being listened to.”

“Thank ye, Lieutenant. I’m bloody glad we’re partnerin’ for this job.”

Kijé nodded, smiling, and looked down at her boots so she didn’t have to bear and reciprocate the moon-stricken mariner’s gaze again.

For a few long minutes, there was just them, the soft noise of Sarkli’s breath, her own heartbeat, the music from the ballroom, the drumming of the rain, a mutter that might be Lieutenant Veers’ and the general’s voices in conversation, the sounds too far and polluted to discern the words.

Then, she heard the droid’s voice. She looked up to Sarkli, who had retaken his position just behind the corner.

The droid flew back to them, balancing a pile of used glasses on its anti-grav field. “Lieutenant Veers is coming your way,” it said in a low voice. “I shall now resume my ordinary tasks, sir.”

Sarkli stuck a thumb out at the droid, which hovered away.

Lieutenant Veers strode into the corridor, passing by Sarkli without a hesitation. He saw Kijé, though, and glared at her. The frown was one hundred percent his father’s genes. Kijé stepped backwards, her back flat to the wall, as he stepped closer to her. “Fuck you,” he hissed; his breathing on her face reeked of wine.

A moment later, he was yanked backwards. Sarkli wrapped an arm over his shoulders, slapped his hand over Lieutenant Veers’ mouth; his other hand pressed a knife to his neck. Kijé wondered when and where he’d nicked that off of a table.

Lieutenant Veers writhed, clawed at the mouth-shutting arm, but Sarkli held fast. “Yer drunk, laddie. Very, very drunk. Ain’t naw good fer yer health.” He pressed the knife harder, the blade making a dip in the soft, hairy skin under Lieutenant Veers’ chin.

That made Lieutenant Veers stop struggling. His eyes flitted from Kijé to Sarkli’s arms and back. Less frown, more plead. Kijé wanted to kick him in the shins to make up for the just-missed opportunity to do so.

“Kijé, would ye please search him?”

“Y-yes, sir.” She patted Lieutenant Veers up and down the uniform; the only thing that turned up was a pack of Jamel Filters cigarettes.

“They’re bad for yer health, too,” Sarkli drawled to Lieutenant Veers’ ear. “Keep ‘em, Kijé. Time we take our new chum for a ride; he needs some fresh air, I reckon.”

Sarkli spun him around as easily as he’d spun Kijé during the dance and half pushed, half dragged him towards the exit gate of the commoners dining room. Kijé saw a few server droids floating in to tidy up the tables, but none raised so much as a photoreceptor. She stuffed the cig pack in her pocket and followed Sarkli.

The transparisteel gate slid open. A cold gust and the smell of rain blew in. Kijé shivered, but Sarkli just pushed Lieutenant Veers out into the night.

She had no choice but go after them, holding her cap tight to her head under the chilly raindrops. Well, she’d walked through worse downpours; this one was almost mild compared to rain season in Kaadara, there were only thunderbolts and no waterspouts. Synthwool, however, was far from a rainproof fabric; by the time the trees in the lantern-lit path to the parking area formed a partial roof over her head, her waterlogged uniform felt like it weighed a dozen kilos more.

“Kriff—!”

There was a splashing noise ahead of her. All she saw was a Human form on the ground, in a mud puddle. Sarkli. Then a hand grabbed her wrist, a knife blade shone before her eyes. With a squawk she clasped that attacking arm and held Lieutenant Veers’ hand as distant as her inferior strength allowed.

“Don’t move!” Lieutenant Veers roared. “Don’t move I said, or I’ll kill her!”

Kijé dropped all her weight downwards, to keep him from lifting her. She kicked at his legs, got him to sway on his feet, and when he his balance slid forward she bent to a squat and threw him over her shoulder.

Hardly the clean, flying throw that the Thunderers practised on the mat, but it worked. Lieutenant Veers landed on his back on the wet pebbles, and instead of rolling away and getting up he just lay there growling in pain. Sarkli immediately was on him, and kicked him in the left flank. Hard enough to lift him off the ground a few centimetres. Lieutenant Veers screamed, tried to curl up. Sarkli bent to grab him by the hair and slammed his head against the ground. While Lieutenant Veers bleated, Sarkli turned him around, gathered his wrists behind his back, and held him down with a knee on his spine.

“Are ye all right?” Sarkli asked Kijé. “Did he hurt ye?”

“I—I’m fine.” Her heart was beating so fast it made her light-headed. “Don’t worry.”

“I worry, chik. ‘Twas my bad.” He wrung Lieutenant Veers’ arms, tearing a growl out of him. “I’ll make him pay. Heard that, sleemo? That ain’t the way to treat a lady.” He hoisted Lieutenant Veers back up to his feet; Lieutenant Veers stood a lot limper than before.

They made their way to the speeder under the rain. Sarkli asked Kijé to open the trunk for him, and pick up a pair of stun cuffs that lay there in the faint glow of the automatic lights.

“Ye know how to put ‘em on him?”

Kijé shot Sarkli a glare; the cuffs stuck into place around Lieutenant Veers’ wrists at the third attempt.

Sarkli refrained from making remarks, which left free rein to Kijé’s imagination; well, you didn’t need _that_ much of an imagination to guess his thoughts. _Stars, she’s dumb. Awkward. Inefficient. Poodoo-poor excuse for an officer_.

He shoved Lieutenant Veers inside the trunk, grabbed a greasy rag lying there and tied it around Lieutenant Veers’ head to gag his mouth; then he slammed the trunk shut. “Let’s go,” he said. They both dived for cover inside the speeder, Sarkli at the driver’s seat and Kijé next to him.

“Whew! Ye alright?” He threw his gloves in a wet lump on the dashboard, turned the engine on and cranked up the heating before the headlights and windscreen wipers had even activated.

“Yes, I told you—I’m fine.” She looked down at her hands on her thighs: they were shaking. She clenched her fists but the tremor stayed.

“Yer not used to combat adrenaline,” Sarkli noted. He started driving towards the exit of the parking area, the hoverlanterns rearranging their pattern with lights at full intensity to guide the way. “That’s understandable.”

“Because I’m a desk jockey all around.”

“Nothin’ bad wi’ that.”

“Hm-hm. Nothing bad.” Kijé clamped her hands together between her knees. At least so she didn’t have to see them tremble. “I’m frightened and it shows, doesn’t it? Do you think it’s cute?”

“Not on ye. It will be cute jus’ when I scare the living daylight outta the son-of-a-Hutt in the back.” Keeping his left hand on the steering wheel, he held out his right to Kijé. “Thanks for yer assistance, Lieutenant. An’ naw, I don’t mind it if yer hands are shaky. Won’t tell anyone, either.”

She gave in to the handshake. His grip was firm, warm, and his palm so big in proportion to her slender girly hand, but that very feature had a calming, protective effect.

“Hells, ye better take off ‘em drenched gloves,” Sarkli said, retreating his hand and wiping it on his chest. Kijé noticed just how close his fingers got to the shoulder pin of his tunic. “How... inappropriate—that’s the word, aye?—would it be if I suggested ye to take off yer tunic, too? It’s probably makin’ ye shake worse’n the scare.”

“...Quite inappropriate. But you have a point.” Kijé unfastened her tunic, then the belt, and wriggled out of the soaked garment. A flash of lightning filled the cockpit, followed by a close-rumbling thunder that made the windows shudder.

“Bloody hells,” Sarkli said under his breath. It reassured her that he seemed more attentive to the foul weather than to her state of partial undress. Not that she had become a prude all of a sudden, dammit, but you could never be too sure around Rimworlders. Especially male Rimworlders.

“I know you attended the academy on Arkanis,” Kijé said. “It’s a stormy world, too, isn’t it?”

“I was jus’ thinkin’ this place reminds me of Arkanis.” He pressed a button on the dashboard and a terrain holomap sprang up on the projector; despite the wall of pouring water they were driving through, the route on the map was lit in an all-okay green.

Sarkli said nothing further. His eyes stayed on the road ahead, and Kijé looked down every time they flitted in her direction. It was hot in the speeder, but shivers kept running down her spine and she had to sit stiff to suppress them. Her panties felt wet; she didn’t want to know if it was from the rainwater that had seeped through the skirt of her tunic and into her trousers, or something else.

She should ask more about Arkanis. Tell him about storms back home at Kaadara, on the ocean: howling wind, purple-grey sea, Gungan surfers braving the waves. She imagined herself describing her hometown. Him nodding, smiling, asking questions in his accent.

The silence kept hanging. The noise of the rain filled it for a while; then it subsided as the sky above them cleared to high clouds backlit with distant lightning, and patches of clear sky and sharp starlight. Kuat City sprawled ahead of them at the edge of the dark plain, its lights glistening in the humid atmosphere.

“Annice?”

Kijé’s heart picked up a quick rhythm.

Sarkli cleared his throat. “How uneasy would ye be about... y’know... Kriff, never mind.”

“About sex?”

“Oi, I jus’ meant to ask about kissin’!”

“Oh. I... Sorry.” _Dammit dammit dammit double dammit, Annice, you idiotic freak, that’s so inappropriate, he must think you’re making a xenophobic assumption on Outer Rim people and their sexual mores—_ “I’m... cool with kissing.”

“Honest?”

She swallowed, and crossed her legs tight to stanch a wave of gushing. “More than cool, in fact.”

“More than cool.”

The speeder slowed down. Then it edged to the left, until it halted on a lay-by. The engine’s whirr fell silent, giving way to the whoosh of the wind outside and a dull, crowing birdsong somewhere above them. Sarkli breathed in deep and out. He turned to face her, cheeks flushed, eyes half-shut.

Her chest swelled in triumph—not that there was much to swell there. He was smitten and bashful, and _she_ was having this effect on him, a seasoned field agent who’d had Shiraya knew how many partners.

Then understanding, or anxiety, or both, poured down like another chilly rush of rain: he must be playing nice to make her at ease. She was just so dumb, skittish and cowardly that she needed constant reassurance. And be treated like a stupid little girl. It was so demeaning.

She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to her. Their mouths knocked together. It hurt her nose and her upper teeth, but she held fast and shoved her tongue inside Sarkli’s mouth. It was wetter in there than she expected; he tasted of food she couldn’t recognise. And his tongue moved in reaction to hers. Lapping, pushing, sliding underneath and up again. He dipped his head and she let him in as he returned the kiss in depth.

Large hands pressed themselves, stroking palms and grabbing fingers, one to her chest and another to her thigh. Her sex tingled inside her wet panties, and she moaned softly into his kiss.

Sarkli broke away with a breathy groan. His hands withdrew, too. “Sorry.”

“Don’t stop. Please.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.” The thought struck her, too late, that maybe he was the one feeling uncomfortable. She should ask him. But not now, not while his mouth was back on hers, his teeth nipped at her lips, his fingers fanned over her breasts through her undershirt.

He trailed a kissing line across her cheek, and Kijé spared a fleeting mournful thought for the foundation his wet lips were digging a trench across. Then she shuddered as his breathing tickled her ear. “Annice,” his purr was one with the shudder, “yer not wearin’ a bra?”

“…No?” She couldn’t help a giggle; her ears weren’t ticklish but her neck just under the earlobe, right _there_ where he panted mere millimetres away from her hot skin, so close as to kiss but not kissing—dammit, _yes_. “There is… not enough hardware to warrant wearing it.”

In response, his hands spun, gathered what little boobs were there, held them firmly, his thumbs worried at her nipples making them rock-hard through the synthcotton. Kijé slammed her head back against the seat, letting out a throaty, animal noise. The shudder now got all the way down to her sex, making her thighs shake and another spurt of fluid gush out in her pants.

He threw himself open-mouthed to her neck, pushing her towards the speeder door on her side. Her knee was stuck between the central console and the warm weight of Sarkli’s leg. She pawed at the front of his tunic, ran her hands to his back, felt his shoulders move and quiver.

One of his hands let go of her and pressed a button on the central console. The moonlight and highway light from outside took a darker shade.

“Haidar…?”

“Luv how ye say me name—”

She planted her palm over his breastbone, holding him just a little bit back. “What if there are cameras? On the streetlights?”

He chuckled. “ISB speeder, chik. Anti-peeper tech was made to be Rebel spy-proof.” His tongue lapped at her neck and his breathing cooled off the damp skin in one go. “Works… better against peepin’-toms, if ye ask me.”

His hand had moved over to her right thigh, the thumb already inside the zip of her trousers.

“I didn’t ask you that.”

His whole body, even his breathing, froze for a split second. Another shiver ran down Kijé’s spine, and this one was not pleasure. Anger flashed across her mind and clutched her neck, like she dared imagine how Lord Vader’s favourite method of summary execution worked; just like that, it was a punishment for incompetence and stupidity—her own.

She grabbed Sarkli’s hand, quick, before the thought settled. Shoved it between her legs. “This is what I ask you.”

He grinned in the glow of the driving console. A little bit too victorious, maybe. So Kijé added, “Take off your clothes first. It’s not fair that I… that I’m naked and you’re not.”

“Yer not naked, technically.” He unclasped his tunic, while his other hand stroked Kijé between her legs, in slow, deep caresses, that pressed the seams of her nether clothes to her sex. “But point taken.” He let go of her to get rid of his tunic and undershirt, which he tossed to the backseat.

Kijé stared at his bare arms, chest and abs. Raised both hands and gingerly touched the tattooed skin. A silly, prude part of her was surprised that the skin did feel like Human skin under the intricate, colourful inks and the Nal-Huttese longhand script she couldn’t read. Sarkli’s chest heaved and deflated under her palms. Her fingers traced the logo over his throbbing heart. “You were in the Black Sun?”

A quivering laugh. “Gotta get that one scrubbed off an’ the Roundel inked there. Or Lord Vader’s helmet.” His big hands clamped down on her hips. “Ye mind?”

She lifted her arms and let him slip the undershirt off of her. It joined her damp tunic and his clothes. Sarkli raked her up and down with his eyes; it made her smile, having a sentient she liked look at her like that. Next thing she knew, his face was between her poor excuses for breasts. His tongue, his teeth, in the pathetically wide cleft and up the small mound, teasing the nipple and then moving on to the other side.

Kijé’s head hung on her shoulder. She stroked his curly hair and his shoulders, hot, strong, painted with alien flowers that bloomed into toothy beasts that swirled into blaster guns.

He paused and pulled his face away to stick two fingers inside his mouth and pop them out wet with saliva. Only then did she realise her trousers were unzipped. And that his left hand was holding down her panties, tufts of hair already visible above the waistband.

“Ain’t the most comfortable place for this,” he breathed. “Sorry in advance.”

She yanked him tight by the hair, tearing a feral moan out of his mouth, and shoved him back face-first to her chest. Then she spread her legs, as wide as she could inside the speeder cockpit.

From light years away, she thought she heard a noise over the rumble of her heartbeat in her ears: a thump at the back of the car, the prisoner’s muffled voice.

Sarkli’s fingers started to move at her slick edge. She leaned back against the cool, darkened pane and moaned in bliss, as the galaxy outside faded off.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: **torture** and **threats of rape**. Forewarned is forearmed.

One moment, Zev was holding Kijé hostage. He threatened to kill the bitch and meant every word of it, drunk on the same intoxicating fury that had filled him as he spoke with his father.

Next, a teräs käsi hip throw sent him flying arse-over-tits. He’d always been better at dancing than at hand-to-hand combat practice.

His back slammed down on hard, pebbly ground, and he cried out in both pain and _shit my spine I broke my spine shit shit shit_.

A boot hit him in the side. The shockwave rippled across his inner organs, to a focal point of lancing pain in his left shoulder. Growling, he gathered his legs to his chest. His head came next: the brief humiliating little pain of pulled hair. A crash.

More pain, in his arms, in his shoulder. A drumming, droning ache in his head. Voices. His consciousness flashing on and off. Darkness. Shaky, bumpy and tight-spaced darkness, where he lay curled up with his arms forced behind his back, a disgusting taste of grease in his mouth, an all-encompassing rumble filling his ears.

For a long time, he was convinced he was back in the womb, and his mother was doing a round of jogging with him inside her.

Then the motion smoothed down, until it stopped altogether. The rumble went quiet, too, leaving a tinnitus whistling deep in his ears. This must be the back of a speeder. He must be inside the trunk. He vaguely remembered being dragged to the parking lot. Sarkli, Kijé, rain, cold, pain. Goddesses, he felt cold now, with barely enough space to shiver in his wet uniform. His temples throbbed. Loose tufts of hair stuck to his forehead, held there in a crust of caked mud or blood.

The speeder was not moving. That rumble from before had to be the engine. They were already trying to wear down his defences.

He had been gagged with a dirty piece of cloth. Biting into it felt strange, like his jaw was disconnected from the rest of his face. Shit. Was it shock fucking up his sensations, or brain trauma?

He tried to thrash his feet around, shout through the gag in his mouth. His knees banged against the hard surroundings at every motion. Mounting panic bantha-shitted him into believing that the place was getting more cramped than it already was, the walls closing in, crushing him.

By terrified instinct, he tried to wriggle his hands free. The stun cuffs that bound his wrists shocked him back into unconsciousness.

He had no idea how long afterwards it was when the darkness around him started pulling and pushing him to his feet. It held him by both arms, pinching so tight there would be bruises on the skin later, and roughly felt him up around his whole body, searching for hidden weapons. He flinched when they patted him over his chest. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , his ribs hurt. That was the purpose of the pat-down; portable scanners were more efficient, but manual searches were more invasive and intimidating.

The darkness also clattered like a stormtrooper armour, and growled at him in a Human, male voice, filtered through a helmet, “Move along, move along!”

 _I can’t see where I’m moving, you moronic buckethead!_ , he tried to say. His teeth bit helplessly into the greased rag. For good measure, they’d slipped a hood over his head while he was out cold; thick, black sackcloth that let no light in. He shook his head, rolled his eyes downwards, scraping his nose and chin against the folds of fabric. It was to no avail. He couldn’t see even a sliver of the ground his feet skidded and stumbled on, as he was forced to keep the stormtroopers’ pace.

Tears filled his eyes under the hood. The stormtroopers wouldn’t see him cry, but that was hardly a solace. His weepy breathing hissed through his nostrils.

A voice that sounded awfully like Commander Laibach’s chimed in to his mind, already too late: _Focus on your surroundings._ _Sight isn’t the only sense you can use. The ground under your feet, how does it feel? Sludge, solid rock?_

It did feel solid. That was all he reckoned.

The stormtroopers halted but didn’t let go of him. Zev couldn’t sense any motion but made an educated guess that they were standing in a lift.

 _Where are we going?_ Attempting to ask that was a mistake. Nothing but a garbled question-like sound exited his gagged mouth. A blaster rifle butt hit him in the side. Pain shot in his left shoulder, way up higher. Shit, this meant his spleen was fucked. Or his liver. He couldn’t remember Human anatomy now. He was afraid to remember it and become aware of how badly he was injured.

The stormtroopers pushed and dragged him forward again. Through the hood, Zev heard muffled footfalls and the hiss of opening doors. Or closing doors. Maybe they were on a ship, in space—could that be possible? No, probably no, but… Shit. He swung his head around, trying to shake the hood off. As he did, he gave a tug at the cuffs; not enough to trigger a stunning jolt, but the electricity that zapped up his right arm hurt. A millisecond of unbearable heat radiated through his nerves, stopping just above his elbow and leaving his forearm numb, as if it had been seared off at the joint. He couldn’t feel his fingers.

All of a sudden, the stormtroopers halted.

A hand grabbed the hood at the top of Zev’s head and yanked it off, pulling some of his hair along with it. He yelped in pain and squinted in the cold, white light that flooded his teary eyes.

His arms slumped at his sides; the cuffs were gone. Next was the gag. He coughed, touched his jaw, then his forehead where it’d been aching. Pain flared up and he retreated his hand.

“Undress,” ordered a stormtrooper.

Zev looked around, his sight slowly clearing. “What?” he croaked. His throat was parched. “Give me water—”

“Undress.”

The stormtroopers were two, standing by a closed door with their blasters trained on him.

The room resembled a closet. Windowless, unfurnished. Designed to disorient.

“Where am I? Why am I here?”

“You are under arrest,” said the other trooper, whose voice sounded feminine.

“This—this is a mistake. Do you know who I am? Lieutenant Zevulon Veers. My father—”

“Undress, suspect,” spoke up again the male trooper.

 _Suspect_. Zev’s heart froze in mid-beating. “This is a mistake. I… I am an officer of the—”

“Or we will remove your clothes ourselves.”

Zev stared at the troopers. His eyes had trouble focusing, the armoured figures flickered and doubled. The man and the woman were impossible to tell apart.

Long ago, Commander Laibach had explained to him that wearing a complete stormtrooper armour, with bodysuit underneath, makes it impossible to whip out your genitalia and have sexual intercourse. But—Laibach would raise middle and index finger—two things: one—middle finger down—you don’t need your genitalia to rape someone. Two—index down—the point is to make the bastard as vulnerable as possible.

With trembling fingers, he unclasped his tunic. It was a harder fight with the belt buckle, and when he got to pulling his boots off, he fell to the floor. One of the troopers kicked him in the asscheek. “Hurry up!”

At last, his clothes lay in a rumpled pile on the floor; sweat drenched his naked body, the hairs on his arms were standing, and shivers raked his skin. When he tried to get up, he fell again. The troopers threw the hood back over his head and hauled him to his feet.

A wave of nausea left him heaving in the hood. The troopers didn’t relent their old, nor did they slow down. A little impromptu plan to distract them and grab a blaster fizzled out before Zev could give it a try. He fantasised about it working, the two stormtroopers lying dead on the floor and him running naked down the corridor—how did he know this place was even a corridor?—with a stolen blaster, set to kill. He would take down as many of them as he could hit, then himself to avoid recapture.

Ninon—had they arrested her, too? And Bertolt? The other people of the _Bulwark_ ’s crew, what were their names? That worked to his advantage: he couldn’t give names if he didn’t know them.

The stormtroopers halted in their tracks. He thought he heard the hiss of an opening, or closing, door. The cuffs clicked off of his wrists, cold light flooded his vision, and while he squinted and recoiled the stormtroopers shoved him forward.

Hobbling along with the momentum, he managed not to fall flat on the floor. It still didn’t save him a hard landing on his knees; for several seconds he sat crumpled, panting and shedding a stream of quiet tears, propping his arms and chest against a narrow, mattress-less bunk. Imperial prison cell design was so standardised he could bloody well tell he was in one, long before his eyesight could readjust itself to the fog of pain and the harsh light. The latter was a tiring eyesore on purpose, of course. It would remain the same, night and day, so as to disrupt the detainee’s circadian rhythm.

Zev tried to ground himself back into the present. It wasn’t easy with the migraine setting in over his forehead and at the root of his nose, but he did try: what time could it be now? Just an approximation. _Let’s say midnight local time_.

He pointed his elbows onto the bunk and hauled himself to lie down on it. His left shoulder exploded in pain; he sagged on his right side, facing the wall, with a groan that made him realise how raw and parched his throat felt. Fuck. He’d never been good at enduring thirst. Actually, this was more like a sore throat than thirst— _stop thinking about it, you idiot. Stop thinking_.

Wasn’t it what the Empire had always wanted him and everyone else in the galaxy to do, though? To stop thinking, just obey, become a good little soldier, or alternatively a victim to debase and destroy, with neither willpower nor—

He tapped his forehead against the wall. The headache stayed there, but the thoughts receded.

They would leave him here to marinate in his physical discomfort and confusion for a while. From personal experience, Zev presumed they would start the interrogation in the morning. After they’d had a nice cup of caf or tea.

Conjuring up the idea of warm liquids, much more so than the dread of interrogation, brought more spillage to his eyes. He sobbed aloud, and his throat ached.

When the crying passed, he began noticing the cold. Numbness in his limbs, hairs standing, shivers spreading from his upper back. He glanced down at himself as he tried to curl up into a tighter ball: shit, even his blaster gun had shrivelled to minimum calibre.

He couldn’t help casting a look at his side, too, where he’d gotten that kick—Sarkli, probably; Kijé was too skinny to strike so hard. There was a purple bruise, as large as a boot sole around his shoe size, at the edge of his ribcage. He shut his eyes and mashed his face to the wall, but it was too late for distractions; with every breath that inflated his chest, now he noticed the pain. How it spread up his back, as if a laser cutter were dissecting his spine and ribs, bone by bone. How it centred on his shoulder with the weight of a neutron star.

His own suffering painted a picture from the past in his mind; it wasn’t his own body, though. The only similar feature was the pale skin. The other one was frecklier and bloodier. That man had been beaten up harder and for longer than Zev had—for now.

During torture sessions, Commander Laibach had always addressed him by his ISB rank. “ _Hello there, Agent. Thought you’d seen the last of me and of our mutual friend Doctor Ball?_ ” Jovial, stomach-churning laughter. “ _Think again._ ”

Former Agent Kallus had sat rigid on the bunk, a crust of blood over his beard, his eyes but thin slits under the swollen eyelids. “ _I am ready, Commander._ ” The only words Zev had ever heard him utter. What had followed were just screams.

Zev tapped his forehead on the wall, begging his brain to just stop, but the kriffing thing clanked on like a battle droid. Commander. Agent. _I am ready_. It had never been an interrogation. It was a ritual. A blood sacrifice. Kallus knew that just as well as Laibach, and what was worst, he accepted it. An Imperial to the bitter end. He hadn’t died as a Rebel, after all, even if the Alliance had perhaps flagged his loss as such.

Which they would never do for Zev. He would suffer and die while, to the galaxy, he would forever remain the Hero of Hoth’s brat.

He sobbed aloud. Once, twice. Then a twinge in his chest, and the tears went quiet. Snot oozed from his nostrils and cooled off on his lips, on the bunk. His thoughts dissolved into the stream of weeping, until this, too, dried up.

The pain kept him awake and drained out his energy at the same time. Even lying down in the same, least painful position became uncomfortable after a while, for his nose clogged. One inch at a time, Zev rolled onto his back. The light knifed at his eyes, shivers ran down his spine as the cold assaulted the undefended front of his body. Without thinking, he crossed his arms to his chest; the movement of the left triggered the shoulder pain again.

“Fuck—!” he cried out to the empty cell.

Or not so empty. He wondered if it was monitored, with microphones and cameras. Tried to squint to the corners of the roof. Nothing.

He gathered his breath. _Fuck the Empire_. He might as well say it aloud for once. “Fuck the—”

The door slid open. Two stormtroopers again. They stomped in and didn’t give him the time to sit up. Grabbed him by the arms, shoved the hood over his head, dragged his whining form out of the cell.

“I know where you’re taking me,” he slurred. The stormtroopers didn’t answer. “You’re going to offer me a chair. Instead of calling up Doctor Ball for a visit.”

“Silence!” barked a buckethead voice.

“Are you unfamiliar with COMPNOR slang, soldier?”

“Silence!”

“I outrank you—” A punch to the bruise on his side cut his words off into a raw-throated cry. He almost vomited into the hood. His legs gave way and he sagged forward, stubbing his big toe on the hard floor. The stormtroopers kept dragging him along like a garbage sack.

He flinched as his back was shoved flat against a cold, smooth surface. Restraints clicked into place at his wrists, waist and ankles. He knew he was strapped to an interrogation chair even before the hood was yanked off. Likewise, he knew it was pointless to struggle against the restraints. But like most sentients in his same predicament, he tried doing so anyway.

“Yer dismissed.”

Zev froze. He batted his eyelids, forcing his eyes to take in the grey room, the stormtroopers disappearing behind the door, and Captain Sarkli holding the chair control datapad in his hands.

Silence hung in the room. Only broken by the low whirring of the chair mechanisms on stand-by.

“Why am I here?” Zev tried.

“Oh, yer awake? Good, good. I was jus’ about to give ye a wee wake-up call, like this.” He pressed a button on the datapad. Zev’s body burst into crackling pain.

He screamed, and it was over.

“I ain’t the biggest fan o’ the rack, to be honest,” Sarkli said. “Bet yer not, either, eh?” Zev’s vision was blurring, he wasn’t sure if because of the tears or a fried brain; but he could _hear_ the smile in Sarkli’s voice.

Zev drew in a deep breath. “Why am I here?”

“Won’t do any good to play daft wi’ me, wermo. The spaceport an’ Lieutenant Lully’s treason attempt. Honest, ye should jus’ confess an’ let us all go home, it’s gettin’ late.”

“I wasn’t involved. You… You are making a mistake.”

“Naw, I ain’t, an’ yer lyin’ outta yer arse.”

“Release me. You’re making a mistake. I didn’t do anything. If you don’t let go of me, my father—he will talk to Lord Vader.”

“Quit the banthacrap, bukee.” Sarkli stepped in front of him, hands and datapad behind his back. Zev silently thanked the Goddesses for sparing him at least one moment of electrocution.

“Do ye smoke?” asked Sarkli.

“Eh?”

“Do ye smoke?”

“I—no, I don’t smoke. Now let me—”

“Shut yer trap an’ jus’ answer my questions,” Sarkli held up the datapad, “else yer getting’ a zap each time ye mouth off.”

Zev eyed the electrode arm of the chair, hanging a few centimetres away from his shoulder. Sweat popped on his brow. And, too late for him to control it, piss trickled down on his immobilised legs. He shut his eyes and his mouth; tried not to breath and smell himself.

“Yer learnin’ to shut the fuck up. Good bukee. Now let’s teach ye to give answers. Look at this. Look.”

Zev cracked his eyes open. The eyelids were heavy, his vision slow to refocus. But it was easy to recognise the small object in a transparent bag that Sarkli was holding up: a crumpled pack of Jamel Filters cigarettes.

“We found this in yer pocket,” Sarkli said. “Why?”

Zev frowned. Then his eyes widened as the memory rushed back to him. “I... I took it from my father. It’s not mine.”

“Does General Veers smoke?”

If Sarkli’s purpose was to confound him before the real interrogation started, he was succeeding. “No...? I have never seen him smoke. He’s one of those sporty types.”

“Then why did he have these cigs?”

“How in blazes am I supposed to know? Maybe he’d just fucked.” Another recent memory sprang up to the forefront of his mind: that gorgeous woman speaking to his father, the children all around. Tears welled up in Zev’s eyes. He forced himself to smile at his captor. “Don’t you ever crave for a smoke afterwards?”

Sarkli put the cigarette pack down on a maglev tray, next to the rack control datapad. He seemed pensive. “D’ye reckon he fucked a man or a woman?”

His father, with someone who wasn’t his mother...

A bitter wave of bile and wine bubbled its way up to Zev’s mouth. He spat it out in Sarkli’s direction.

He didn’t see if the missile hit the target. A coughing fit seized him and his head hung down on his bound chest; more droplets of bile joined the small foul-smelling pool at his feet.

A slap hit him across the face, his head whipping around to knock against the rack. He didn’t black out, but the room kept spinning ‘round and ‘round, and blood flowed like liquid fire from his cheekbone.

A gloved hand pinched his chin and turned him to face Sarkli.

“Enough nerfshitting,” Zev croaked. His mouth tasted of vomit, but Sarkli’s hand smelled far stranger; like pussy. A tang intense enough that he could sense it through his runny nose. “Do your blasted job. Ask me... ask me about the spaceport.” Thinking hurt almost as much as the physical injuries. It hurt more when he tried to speak. The migraine weighed like a sweltering, windless summer day on the sea.

“I _am_ doin’ my blasted job, wermo.” Sarkli leaned in mere centimetres away from Zev’s face. Zev braced himself for a foul alcohol-flavoured breath, but his nose had clogged again and spared him that bit of grossness. “If I ask ye questions about yer pops, ye answer. An’ don’t try to change topic. That’s very rude, y’know.”

It did his headache no good, but Zev tried to shake Sarkli’s hand off. Only for it to clamp down harder, pinning his head to the rack.

“I can do ye anythin’ I please, wermo. Zap ye, burn ye, peel yer zitty mug off. Or,” Sarkli lowered his voice and added a lascivious sing-song tone to it, “bend ye over an’ bugger yer virgin arse to a bloody pulp.”

Zev felt fingers on his lower belly, tangling in the hair above his cock. He winced backwards, flat to the rack as if he could melt into it, and wriggled in the millimetres of manoeuvre room the restraints allowed. “No,” he rasped.

“Aye.”

Breathless from the effort and the constrained airways, Zev tried one last time to tilt his head and bite Sarkli’s hand. To no avail. The bastard had a durasteel hold. Zev gathered spit— _no, no, you’d give him the pretext he’s provoking you for_. The projectile drooled out of his lips.

“Now yer startin’ to reason.” Sarkli pulled that slimy hand of his off Zev’s crotch, the Goddesses be thanked. “Apologise for yer rudeness.”

Zev drew a few ragged breaths.

“Apologise.”

It wasn’t just an order, it was a threat. Before pride kicked in and demanded he resist, Zev was already bleating, “I apologise. Sir. For... for being rude.”

“Good bukee.” Sarkli let go of his face and took half a step back. Draped one hand on the maglev tray, index finger within reach of the datapad. “So I’ll ask ye again, an’ ye’ll answer nicely this time: did yer pops fuck a man or a woman?”

“I don’t... I don’t know.” He ought to hold Sarkli’s gaze, but he couldn’t detach his own eyes from the datapad.

“Why did ye stub a cigarette on the general’s hand?”

Zev’s mouth hung open. How in blazes did Sarkli know? Had he been spying on his conversation with his father? Shock gave way to mortification as Zev silently called himself a fucking idiot for not being more careful, not watching out for witnesses. The inner voice scolding him sounded like Commander Laibach’s: _And you fancy yourself smart, boy!_

“Bukee, why did ye do that?” With that same tone, Sarkli might’ve asked him why a highbrow kid like him read titillating yet politically correct adventure novels in his spare time. “Cig burns hurt an awful lot.”

“I... I reminded him that smoking is unhealthy.” Zev braced himself for the electrocution.

“How would ye descript the relationship between General Veers an’ Admiral Piett?”

“Uh?”

“Admiral Piett. Death Squadron.”

“I don’t know. How should I—and the word... the word you said—it’s _describe_. Not _descript_.”

Sarkli’s finger flew to press a button on the datapad screen. Zev opened his mouth to cry out _no_ , but the electric burst got him first. White-hot pain flashed through his body from hair roots to toenails.

When it stopped, a dark haze clouded his vision. The biosensors in the waist restraint picked up on the imminent fainting and pricked at his skin to keep him awake. A few micro-needles stabbed into the bruise; ribcage, shoulder and everything in-between felt like they were about to crack into pieces. Zev let out a long, undignified wail.

“I warned ye not to change topic.” In a slow movement, to make sure Zev could follow it, Sarkli took the datapad in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Zev hurried to snivel. Hated himself for playing along with the torturer’s game, for accepting to die as an Imperial. He deserved another zap. But, sweet Goddesses, he did not want it. “I’m sorry, sir.”

The corners of Sarkli’s mouth curled up. “Sure ye are. Well, since yer so eager to talk ‘bout somethin’ else, I’ll humour ye. Tell me why ye wanted to desert.” After a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it frown, he added with a grin, “This time, I bet a Hutt’s girth in gold peggats it’s the right word.”


	26. Chapter 26

Sunlight pressed at Veers’ eyelids. Birdsong trilled at the edge of his auditory field. Home on Denon—no, he was on Kuat. He was never going to get used to it.

He opened his eyes and scanned his surroundings: the living room in early morning penumbra and a persistent acid whiff, the couch he was sitting on, the terrace outside the transparent gate, a slice of dark blue sky above the rooftops, a luminous flying dot. Too slow for a meteor. He reminded himself all spacecrafts in this system were friendly.

Piett was curled up on the opposite end of the couch, his breathing so quiet it didn’t sound like a smoker’s sleep. The blanket was wrapped around him in the same position as when Veers had last tucked it. His unkempt head lay on the armrest and his bare legs were draped across Veers’ lap. The sailor had insisted on being helped out of his trousers after his boots, but sleep had overtaken him before any further undressing.

A smile spreading on his face, Veers rotated his head to crack his stiff neck. The couch was comfortable, but he was getting a bit old for sleeping in any position that wasn’t lying flat.

He froze as Piett stirred, stretching out his legs and dangling his feet in mended socks from the armrest. A yawn later, he raised his head to squint at Veers. “Mornin’, luv.”

“Good morning.” Veers stretched his arms up; his shoulders popped a bit louder than he liked. “It’s still a bit early. Want me to take you to bed?”

“Not yet, thanks.”

“Feeling any better?”

“ _A lot_ better.” Piett propped his head up on his palm, letting the blanket slip off of his shoulders. In the half-light, despite the hangover, the pose seemed lewd.

Veers looked down, silently chastising himself for thinking with his cock like some horny teenager. He patted Piett’s knee on his lap. “Glad to hear that. I maintain you’re not Human, though.”

Quiet laughter.

“Look at yourself, sailor. With what you drank last night, you shouldn’t be so fresh and rested. It’s an insult to my feelings as a moderate drinker.”

“Your envy is adorable, lightweight.”

Veers snorted, while the smile on his face tugged the corners of his lips further up.

“Kuati hours are longer than Imperial standard hours,” Piett went on, his voice clear and awake. “By now I must have abundantly overslept a standard night cycle.”

“Except, you don’t have to work now.” Veers sat back against the cushion and started rubbing circles over Piett’s knee. He felt up the faded lines of an old scar he’d never noticed until now.

Piett hummed. His leg quivered as Veers stroked the back of the knee.

“Ticklish, huh.”

“Hmm.”

“Want me to stop?”

“Why would I?”

Veers’ hand froze. He canted his head to seek Piett’s gaze, the pale shine of his eyes on his still dark face. “Well, maybe because, after what I did to you... you might be ill at ease.”

Piett heaved a loud sigh. “Dear, if I were truly ill at ease, you would already be dead.”

Veers rolled his eyes. It was plain to see that bravado was a reaction to a history of locker-room assault and the stars knew what other traumatic poodoo; nevertheless, if the sailor wanted to play tough, lothcat-eyed pity would only offend him.

“As for what you did to me, I cannot hide that I would be delighted if you tied me up more often.”

A superlaser could have pulverised the apartment roof that instant, and Veers would have been far, far less shocked. “Firmus. Did you... really say what you just said?”

Piett rolled over to lie on his back and pointed a forefinger at Veers. “But next time, we agree on it beforehand.” He let a few seconds crawl by, then knitted his brows and broke through Veers’ dumbstruck silence, “Is that clear, General?”

Veers came back to his wits with a shudder. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. We will worry about that in due time.” Piett grabbed  the edge of the backrest and pulled himself up to sit. The motion was fluid, but the impression of healthiness foundered as Piett clamped a hand over his face and rubbed his temples.

Veers smirked. “Feeling a lot better, eh? Fresh and rested, aren’t you?”

“Go kriff yourself, and take my liver with you.”

“Think you can hold some solid food?”

“Yes, my stomach’s fine. But my mouth tastes like I’ve been swapping spit with a strill. If you don’t mind, I’d rather clean myself up first.”

Veers gently nudged his legs off of himself and got to his feet, ignoring a fleeting pull to the small of his back. “How about a bath? No offence, sailor, but you smell like you need it.”

“Will you join me?”

Veers replied with a grin, and went to turn the bathtub on. The light in the bathroom switched on automatically, even though the sunlight was enough to see clearly. As he keyed in the combination commands for the shower and bath modules, he couldn’t help staring at the bacta patch on his wrist. It had become almost transparent, except for a patch of unabsorbed blue goo at the centre.

The sunlight lost some of its shine, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.

The tub settings display gave a gentle beep, awaiting further instructions. His fingers typed commands—water temperature at thirty-six degrees, millaflower foam, aroma intensity at level three—while his mind strayed back to last night.

_I’ve got it. You need to die._

_If you love me and if you haven’t been lying to me, don’t move._

His throat constricted. Phantom pain pulsed in his arm again; the stench of cigarette smoke and burned skin wafted to his nostrils, as lifelike as any battle flashback, the sensation more vivid than it had been in reality.

 _You need to die_. He had given Zev his word. There was no turning back now. Never had been. Pity he had not died sooner, when Eliana was alive and could find a better husband for herself, a better father for her children.

“Is the bath ready yet?”

Veers whipped around, startled.

The suddenness of his motion, perhaps his face as well, made Piett freeze on the threshold.

“Are you alright?” Piett asked, leaning on the doorjamb.

“Sure. Sorry. It’s…” He glanced at the pale pink foam bubbling up on the bathwater surface. “…going to be ready in a moment.”

Piett raised an eyebrow, but said no more. Veers breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“Care to help me out of my clothes?”

“Always happy to oblige, sailor.” Veers himself noticed, and cringed at, the too-neutral tone of what was supposed to be a saucy quip.

Again, Piett had the tact of not commenting. He raised his arms and let Veers remove his tunic and shirt. Veers ran his hand—not the wounded one—across Piett’s bare, hickey-dotted chest. He stared at the blemishes on Piett’s pale skin, and felt nothing. Well, nothing save for a mild, barely sensual wish to kiss them away.

“I’m sorry, Max.”

“Hm?”

“Please don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you.”

To conceal the laughter that threatened to bloom out of his mouth, Veers bent his head and kissed Piett on the lips. He pulled to the side, making a face. “Remember to brush your teeth.”

Piett muttered something Veers didn’t pay attention to as he put his mouth to gentle, nibbling work on the other man’s neck. He felt Piett’s hands on his body, peeling his shirt off his flanks and brushing against the skin underneath.

The bathtub emitted a musical beep.

In one fluid motion that his quadriceps screamed bloody revenge for, Veers crouched and pulled Piett’s pants down. Piett hopped on one foot, then the other, out of the garment. His socks came off next. Veers could allow himself a few fast kisses on the insides of Piett’s legs until he had to stand back up, smiling over the muscle pains. “After you, Admiral.”

His face fell at the sight of Piett limping towards the bathtub, holding onto the wall and the washbasin.

“Shit, I’m an idiot.” He rushed to Piett’s side, offering him his arm.

Piett just patted his biceps, turned the tap on and rinsed his mouth a couple times. Then he staggered through the remaining few paces and sat down on the edge of the tub. He shot Veers a pointed look. “Are you going to remain overdressed, dear?”

“No. Certainly no.” Veers made short work of his trousers and underclothes, while Piett crossed over the tub’s edge and lowered himself into the bubbly water. Moments later, Veers followed him. The cushioned seat underwater was wide enough for his large frame to sit comfortably and leave plenty of room for Piett.

This place was Moff Juno’s favourite residence. Of fucking course the bathtubs had to be spacious enough for at least two average-sized Human males.

That disturbing thought shoved aside, Veers relaxed into the water’s warmth and sweet flowery tang with a sigh. The muscle soreness in his legs dissolved, and so did a bit of stiffness in his neck and upper back.

Piett rested his head on Veers’ chest. The short stubble on his cheek was prickly, but Veers wouldn’t have moved for all the tea on Gatalenta.

“Enjoying the bath, Firmus?” He wrapped his foam-coated arm around the sailor’s shoulders.

“Blessed be the sentient who invented baths.” A soft rumble rose from under the bubbles. Piett shifted on the seat. “I’m... afraid my stomach thinks this scent is cake. Or something of that sugary sort.”

Veers chuckled.

“Oh, stop mocking. I used to be a poor boy and could only _dream_ of sweets.”

“Turning my weak spot for your youth sob stories to your advantage, sailor?”

“Not my fault you’re a big sentimental berk.”

Veers caught hold of Piett’s hand underwater, and brought it to grope between his own legs. “ _This_ big.”

“Max, you barmpot!” But he laughed. And did not yank his hand back. The touch felt muffled, soft, slippery, caressing Veers’ flaccid cock and thighs until Piett’s hand floated up, just above the foam surface.

“Have you ever done it in the water?” Veers asked.

“Is this another instance of your honesty time banthacrap? Well, that’s easy to answer for once: no. Not enough clean water on my homeworld.” A heartbeat’s pause. “You?”

“Yes. Plenty of sea on Denon you can swim in.”

“ _Swimming_ in the sea. You Coreworlders, I swear... I’m assuming you went with your wife?”

“She was just my girlfriend back then.”

Silence.

“Cute,” Piett said, his gaze fixed on the bubbles his finger was popping one by one. If he was feeling jealous, he was plastering a trademarked Admiral Cold Sweat sabacc face over it.

Guilt crept up on Veers, at the anger that had consumed him when he’d found out about Piett’s recent trip to the knocking shop. At his own unfairness, for forcing Eliana’s phantom between them. Zev was right; if she could not move on and rest in peace, it was all his fault.

He pushed the guilt away, like a war nightmare at the end of a restless night cycle or the fist-itch to beat up Ozzel after a staff meeting. At least tried. Piett had been the one to ask, this time; it was his bad if he pried and found out something that upset him.

The blare of a comm terminal rang from the living room.

Piett let it ring for a few moments, then hissed like a fyrnock. “This _better_ be good news.”

“Define ‘good news’.” Veers’ heart sank a bit, and so did what little stiffness his cock had gathered underwater, as he watched Piett hoist himself up to the edge of the tub and step out.

“Repair works on the Lady finally picking up some steam. May I borrow?” Piett was already helping himself to a bathrobe hanging from the wall.

“Sure.”

The garment reached down to Piett’s ankles; Veers feared the hung-over bastard might trip on it, but no crashing sound came from the living room as Piett waddled his way there.

The damned comm stopped its annoying racket. Veers half sighed in relief, half grunted—

“Lord Vader!” Piett’s voice snapped from the living room.

Veers baulked, sinking in the water to his chin. The temperature felt like it had dropped a dozen degrees and his skin crawled. But the scare lasted for just a few instants. That git must be pulling a prank on him. Shitty naval sense of humour, and they had the balls to complain about army jokes.

Then he heard the voice. Too low to make out the words, but the timbre was unmistakable. All of Veers’ senses focused, while the hair stood on the back of his head: he couldn’t hear the hiss, damn his blast-dulled and aging ears, but his imagination made up for the impairment.

Piett’s clipped business voice took over. Veers got out of the bathtub; he wasn’t afraid of Vader, not for himself, but he didn’t like leaving Piett to deal with him alone in that sorry state. Sorrier than Piett was letting show, for certain, and Vader was creepily good at picking up such cues.

As quickly and quietly as he could, Veers rubbed himself dry with a towel and put his underclothes and trousers back on. He squashed a fit of shame and uncharacteristic dread at the thought of not wearing his boots in front of his commander, of all the attire irregularities he could fuss about, and strode straight-backed to the living room.

Piett sat rigid in front of the comm console and the small full-body hologram it projected. Veers halted a few meters away, keeping out of the holographic generation sensors’ range. The muffled but still nerve-jangling hiss of Vader’s respirator underscored Piett’s stream of words, which the Sith Lord was listening to with arms crossed over his chest. From his knowledge of Vader’s body language, Veers was fairly confident that pose didn’t mean threat. Or anger. It did not mean content, either.

The repair works the admiral had mentioned _were_ in need of steam. And Piett was heaping statistics on Vader to back that up. Graphs and sheets turned up on the holodisplay at a flicker of Piett’s fingers as his address went on.

Out of their sight, Veers allowed himself a proud smile. _That’s my admiral_. Fresh off a fuddle that would have killed a lesser Human, nursing the mother of all hangovers, and here he was, dishing status reports out like he’d spent the night preparing for a briefing.

That smile was knocked right off of his face the instant Vader spoke, “Enough prattling, Admiral. Your failure to speed progress is not the only matter you wished to discuss.”

Damn. Piett had taken care of mentioning his efforts to goad the Kuati into prompter action, Veers had no way of telling with how high a degree of self-aggrandising; _failure_ , though, was a crude exaggeration. A scare tactic, in all likelihood.

“I am not sure I understand, my lord. Is this—”

“Do you have any recollection of your deeds last night?”

An icy sensation settled deep in Veers’ guts.

“I attended the gala at Jeskeith Manor,” Piett said, too slow and calm to really be calm. “Then I returned to my lodgings.”

“And you made a pitifully inconsiderate attempt at contacting me,” replied Vader, poison lacing his voice. A red-framed display popped up on the holodisplay. Piett tilted his head forward a bit, then sat back with a flinch, making the chair feet skid on the floor.

Veers cursed under his breath. This had to be some serious shit news, otherwise Piett would have never let his control slip like this.

Piett shot a glance in his direction, then turned back to Vader’s hologram. “Is it true?”

“Why would you need to know? Are you considering a transfer to the Moddell sector?” Vader sounded condescending, almost mocking, but that note of malice lingered. The ice in Veers’ guts grew chillier.

“It is a huge drain of resources for the fleet, my lord. One that we cannot allow ourselves at this stage of the war. If it has affected Death Squadron, I can only shudder to think how much it will deplete our sector fleets in the Outer Rim, the ones we most need to chase the Rebels and maintain order. Not to mention how the raw materials are procured and processed; our armament industry depends on criminal cartels and capricious industrialists far more than it ought to. But most importantly, it is—do I have permission to speak frankly?”

“You have permission to _make sense_.”

“From a strategic standpoint, it is plain and simple folly.” Piett was struggling to keep his voice even. A light tremor was shaking his shoulders. And Veers still had no idea what the fuck this was all about.

“Interesting opinion, Admiral. Perhaps you should share it with the Emperor, since this project was launched on his express order.”

“I... I am not questioning His Majesty’s wisdom, but we can’t hide from ourselves that the first Death Star was a disaster of untold magnitude.”

 _First_ Death Star? Veers’ skin crawled.

“The loss of personnel and materiel at Yavin, the resources spent on it over the years, its intended deterrence effect backfiring on the Empire—excuse me, my lord, but I fail to see why we should repeat those mistakes all over again.”

“You can’t be serious,” Veers let it slip aloud.

Piett jumped on the chair and glanced towards him. The hologram turned its helmeted head in his direction, too. It gave Veers the blood-curdling sensation of having a blaster gun trained on him.

He stomped forward and into the hologram’s field of vision, stood behind Piett and looked the hologram straight in the masked face.

“General Veers,” Vader said. “You were not supposed to eavesdrop.”

“I apologise, my lord,” Veers did his best to suppress any trace of anxiety in his voice. “Is there really a new Death Star?” His eyes flicked to the open message on the side display. Those two words in the text drained the blood from his face. Ailsa Valon flashed across his mind, her beautiful face scowling. _My research work went into the Death Star project. I have come to despise naivety_. Veers gritted his teeth against a surge of upset and guilt, as if he had been deceived or had deceived someone else.

“This is none of your concern, General.”

“With all due respect, my lord, it is. The Army lost many of its finest officers and troops at Yavin, and it is my duty to question the sanity of risking another tragedy of the same proportions.” Shit, he was being an undiplomatic battle droid once again. “Was Grand General Loring ever consulted on... this?”

“The Joint Chiefs as a whole were,” Vader answered. “Grand General Loring did not share his predecessor’s fault-finding outlook on Tarkin and the Death Star project.”

Veers bristled at the implied threat, and at the discovery that Loring was a Force-damned yes-man who sacrificed strategic good sense to appeasing the higher powers.

“The Joint Chiefs also kept this project secret to us,” Piett interjected, shooting a split-second glare at Veers. “Yet, it is common knowledge among Lady Jeskeith’s retinue. So common that they treated it as an amusing conversation topic at a dinner party, my lord. And used it to make a mockery of the Navy.”

“Then I remind you that you have more pressing concerns than _mockery_.”

Piett’s face blanched, but he did not miss a beat. “Yes, my lord, such as the safety of restricted information. If this intel is shared so carelessly in a social circle while the Imperial Navy is left unaware, who is to say that Rebel spies won’t pick it up sooner or later? Or that the Kuati magnates themselves won’t betray us? They are losing profits; this might make them sensible to enemy influence.”

Veers’ mind went back to Ailsa again. Did _she_ know? Did Baron Valon?

“I suspect there are rumours circulating already where there shouldn’t be,” Piett went on. “I have had officers approaching me about the Sanctuary Pipeline—that is a closely tied operation to this second Death Star project, isn’t it?”

“It is, and you will evaluate those requests as you see fit.”

Piett wetted his lips. “Is... is it not a concern that officers junior than me and General Veers seem to be aware there is something afoot?”

Vader’s hologram stuck an arm out and waved a finger at Piett. Veers steeled himself, waiting for an invisible noose to grip his neck. Vader rumbled, “The only cause for concern here is your lack of vision, Admiral. Tarkin had noted that about you and turned you down as an aide; I see you haven’t learned that lesson yet.”

Piett said nothing. Shut his mouth tight.

“If you had been more perceptive, instead of allowing yourself and General Veers to become distracted with each other, you would have understood on your own long ago.”

Veers fought an urge, bone-deep in his knees, to back away from the hologram as if a trench under heavy shelling awaited outside a bunker. Fucking hells, why had he left his tunic in the other apartment? It would have made the humiliation a bit less grating if he were taking it in proper military dress.

“And if, as you say,” Vader continued, dripping menace and his own brand of sarcasm, “chatty junior officers have figured out the secret already, perhaps I should appoint one of them to replace you. Who are they?”

The reply was flat and dead, “Captain Chiraneau.” It chilled Veers’ blood more than the death threat, or the brutal reminder that Vader knew about him and Piett and what was going on between them and was not going to tolerate it anymore.

“Duly noted.” The hologram raised his right hand and squeezed into thin air.

 _Bloody hells, no_.

Piett winced so hard the chair rocked backwards and was tipped off-balance. Veers propped it from behind; his eyes met Piett’s, wide with panic as he wheezed and pawed at his neck.

“Lord Vader,” Veers said, forcing his voice to sound normal and respectful even though he wanted to scream, “this isn’t necessary—”

“Silence.” The bastard added as if talking to himself, “I should have killed him at Bespin.”

Piett shuddered and doubled over on the chair, his raspy struggles for breath fainter and fainter.

Veers fixed a furious stare on the hologram and opened his mouth. _What the fuck were we doing at Bespin anyway? Should the Emperor have killed_ you _for your failure, sir?_

He said nothing. Closed his mouth, grabbed tight onto the backrest of the chair, grit his teeth and clenched his jaw until the pressure in his ears hurt. There was nothing he could do or say to make things right. Just like with Eliana and Zev. All he could do was watch. Burn the final moments of his loved one into his memory, let them haunt his dreams.

It was a fairer closure than what Eliana had gotten from him, after all. He soon would die, too. This pain wasn’t going to last long.

Piett broke into hacking coughs, gulping air in.

Veers released a held breath of his own. He leaned onto the chair for support, as relief liquefied his knees and clouded his mind like a strong wine.

“Thank you, my lord,” Piett croaked, in-between the coughing fits. “I will not...” Harder coughing. But he did not avert his eyes from the hologram.

“You will not fail me yet another time. My mercy is at its end, Admiral.” Vader turned to Veers. “As for you, General—”

Veers straightened up, all emotions on hold under a shield of professionalism. Time to receive orders. Dying had to wait.

“If you play any role in forcing me to terminate the most capable admiral my fleet has ever had, his blood will be on your hands. Remember that.”

“I will, Lord Vader.”

The hologram dissolved. For a few moments the room felt as dead and silent as the ground zero of a high-energy explosion.

Piett’s coughing spurred Veers out of the shell shock. He slipped a hand under his chin and tilted his chin up to examine his face: lips and skin had a pale blue hue, and Piett shut his teary eyes as soon as they met Veers’. That avoidance upset Veers for a split second. Raspy, deep coughs shook Piett’s puny frame until the bathrobe slipped off of his left shoulder.

“You need to lie down,” said Veers. Nine hells, he may not snore but _now_ you could hear the man was a smoker.

Piett stood up, and his legs gave way. Veers caught him before he fell and walked him to the couch, where he helped him lie on his back with his legs on the armrest. Then he made a dash for the kitchenette sink and brought back a glass of water. Piett rolled over to sit up propped on his elbow, took the glass without a word and drank it all in a few sips. He lay down again, eyes closed, clutching the glass so it stood on his chest. Veers made a cautious attempt at removing it, but Piett was holding on too tight.

The bathrobe now left him bare to the belt knot just above the navel. Had Vader seen the hickey marks? A shiver ran down Veers’ spine. It had been all so sudden, so fucking wild and unexpected. One moment they were cuddling in a bubble bath, the next—Lord Vader, Death Stars, death. It beat even that time the hostiles on Mimban had launched a large-scale, heavy-artillery bombardment the very instant he’d landed his dysenteric arse on a functioning loo.

When Piett’s breathing sounded somewhat normal, Veers asked, “Feeling better?” Stupid question, but better than leaving Piett to fester in the fear he was concealing.

“I’m alive for now, I suppose.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, which triggered another short burst of coughing. “...Nine hells. I’ve been an idiot.”

“I’m not sure I understood. Did you seriously commed Lord Vader while you were drunk on... all the shit you were drunk on last night?”

Piett growled.

“I wasn’t blaming you. I would’ve needed a few stiff drinks, too, if somebody had broken the news about a new Death Star to me at a kriffing garden party.”

“Thank you for the moral support.” Piett swallowed. “And—thank you for not speaking up.”

Veers’ heart sank. “Are you being passive-aggressive now?” As if he didn’t have a damn right to be so.

“No, I mean it. Lord Vader would have actually killed me had you interfered. Maybe killed you as well.”

“Blast if I’d have cared.”

“Dead men _cannot_ care.”

But if her people’s lore was factual, Eliana, stuck between death and afterlife, did care. She couldn’t afford the luxury of not caring. Veers massaged his temples, covered in a sheen of sweat, and tried not to think about theology. “He called you the most capable admiral he’s ever had.”

“False. The most capable in his current fleet. That would be only Ozzel and me so far.”

“It still means you’re valuable.” He sat at the free end of the couch, cramming his bulk between the top of Piett’s head and the armrest.

“Not the same as irreplaceable.” Piett cleared his throat.

“Who’s that Captain Cyrano or whatever his name is, anyway?”

“Chiraneau. Typical Navy man, typical Couronnian.”

“Never met any Couronnian.”

“Good for you. He’s the fellow who persuaded me to visit the A.F.A.R. house.”

Veers laughed; to his own surprise, the humour was genuine. “This explains where he must’ve heard about the Death Star.”

“Likely.”

“Well, I don’t want to shag him. I don’t want him for an admiral, either.” He ran the fingers of his left hand through Piett’s thin, mussed hair. “Don’t get yourself replaced anytime soon, sailor.”

“Aren’t I a replacement to begin with?”

 “For Ozzel or for my wife?” Veers fell silent for a few seconds. “Either way, you shouldn’t overthink it.”

Graciously, Piett accepted the topic derailment. He lifted the glass and slowly turned it around, making it catch the bright golden light of a sunray. “The Sanctuary Pipeline. Of course. I should have guessed.”

“To me, it never made sense. Those escort and patrol missions in the arse-end of the Moddell sector, while our mission was to track down the Rebel high command...” Veers frowned. “Do you reckon it ever made sense to Ozzel?”

“I really can’t tell. He was high up enough to know, and obfuscatingly stupid enough, that I might have grown complacent.” He let his arm drop, hand and empty glass dangling to the floor.

“It wasn’t your fault, Firmus.”

“Oh, dear, I’m too old for comforting lies.”

Veers peered over him to stare upside-down into his eyes. “Listen up, sailor: you’re alive, I am alive, your slip-up did not end with a body count. So it’s fine.”

Piett levelled on him his best heavy-lidded unreadable look. “I need a cigarette.”

“You just got nearly strangled!” Strangled through magic transmitted across thousands of parsecs across interstellar space. Veers spared a passing thought at how absurd it was that he didn’t find the whole thing absurd.

“Not the same. Please tell me you still have my cigarettes? The ones you nicked last night.”

The ones that Zev had taken. He suppressed the instinct to glance at the bacta patch on his wrist. “Last known location is the bottom of a garbage collection chute at Jeskeith Manor.”

The unreadable look morphed into a scowl. “I don’t know why I love you.”

“First and foremost, you like my—”

“What was your worst slip-up, if I may ask? Kolene?”

Veers had expected that question since he’d mentioned slip-ups and body counts. The recollection hurt less than he’d feared. “Not the worst, but a bad one. I hated garrison command duty like a Mandalorian warrior hates peacetime, but I’d tried my honest damnedest to reason with the miners unions. During the engagement I was too angry to give a shit. But afterwards, seeing the corpses made me feel dirty inside. And it was far from the messiest battlefield I’d ever been in.”

“Weren’t they killed in the stampede?”

“Banthacrap. The Press Corps sweetened the whole thing for the media. Since it was Corellia and not Arse Abscess Prime in the Outer Rim, the Army and ISB played ball so that the Alderaanians wouldn’t pester them to the heat death of the universe. I ordered my troops to fire on the crowd. The casualty figures I saw had already gone through the ISB, official version and all; no actual idea how many died, though I think the Rebellion did its own calculations. Or made them up.”

“I gather the weapons were not set to stun, were they?”

“I had no orders to set weapons to stun. So I didn’t.”

“Desperate measures for desperate times,” Piett mumbled, his gaze distant.

“Why did you ask about Kolene, of all things? It’s hardly my most famed deed. I doubt even Kijé knows the full story.”

“Someone brought that up last night. I forgot who.”

Veers tensed. “Baroness Valon?” That was implausible. Poodoo-faced or not, Piett would not have forgotten Ailsa; you just did not wipe such a beautiful woman from your memory like that.

“I don’t know. I think it was a man.”

Baron Valon, perhaps. It would make sense. Ailsa might have wanted to share with him the happiness of meeting the man who’d punched her arsehole ex.

Piett’s eyes had focused back on him, the glare giving him a polite suggestion to not provoke jealousy all over again. “Well, never mind,” said Veers. “Want to resume amphibious operations?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but...” Piett stroked his neck. “I’m afraid the mood is killed for me.”

“Are you all right, though? Physically?”

“Aye.”

“I can call you a speeder. Get you driven to the closest military hospital.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

While Veers tried to think what to say next, Piett’s stomach rumbled. Without the bathwater to stifle the noise, it sounded more rancor-like than Human.

“How about breakfast?” asked Veers.

“Now you’re talking. I barely ate last night.”

Veers got on his feet and stretched his arms. “What can I get you from the kitchen?”

“Caf, with a lot of sugar.”

“You need food, git. There’s a bakery down the road; I’ll make a supply run and be back, okay?” He could have the food delivered to the apartment, but that posed a risk of being spotted, half-undressed, in the admiral’s lodgings. Besides, he wanted out. And to be alone for a little while; process the hovertrain of banthacrap that had hit him, without having to be careful with words and someone else’s feelings.

“Take your time.” Piett let go of the glass, raised his arm and motioned Veers close. They kissed on the lips, no tongue, chastely and quickly, as if a harsh, reproving presence were watching them.


End file.
